If It Was You
by attica
Summary: The fabulous sequel to Basketcase. “Malfoy,” she found herself saying, and not very nicely, either. “I love you.” To which he then promptly responded by slamming the door right in her face. DracoHermione.
1. The Return of Draco Malfoy

If It Was You 

By attica

**Summary:** **The Sequel to Basketcase**. One year later, Draco Malfoy returns, and proving that every action has its consequences, a horrible chain of events goes awfully awry. The Death Eaters are quiet. A residential fire erupts. Two wizards are killed. A new potion is brewed. An annoying, new Auror is in the trio's midst. Lives are shaken and broken love is stirred up again. Get the gist? Here's a bit more: more secrets uncovered while people go undercover, jealousy makes its second debut, relationships are questioned, misconceptions get a boom, and Polyjuice Potions galore! Now, if only those two kids would get over themselves already and just get together…

**Disclaimer:** Title only borrowed from indie lovelies Tegan and Sara's record, _If It Was You_. And, no, it's _J.K. Rowling_ who owns all of HP, not me. Flattering mistake, though.

**Dedication:** As was the first, as is the last. To Pookie. You. Rule. You go kick college's butt, yeh hear?

**A Draco and Hermione Fanfiction.**

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So the Basketcase **sequel** has arrived! But if you haven't read Basketcase yet, I suggest you do although the length may be quite ghastly… ponders I think you should at least read the last two or three chapters, just to give you an idea of where I left off. Now, a lot of you were confused by the ending of Basketcase's last chapter, and I am here to tell you that the twist was merely in the hall. I'm sorry I can't explain it thoroughly here, but if you'd just message me or so, I'll try my best to send you an explanation.

I'm not too fond of post-Hogwarts stuff (it creeps me out), so this is only a year after their seventh year. So that makes Hermione nineteen, and Draco eighteen, if I'm correct. This is also **COMPLETELY disregarding HPB**, so a warning for all of you out there. Which means: no dead DD, no horcruxes, and all that jazz.

* * *

"No End is really the end. No, my friend. It is only the beginning."

- Anonymous

**The Return of Draco Malfoy**

Today started out like any normal day for Hermione Granger.

Last night, though, had been a horribly wild evening – more rambunctious than any of the events she remembered attending at Hogwarts. George and Fred, to celebrate the massive hit that was their brand new joke shop, had thrown a just-as-massive party. Of course, it was mandatory to come (as said on the invitation) or else any wet blanket would receive some very deceivingly pleasant but unwanted sweets through owl, or maybe even personal delivery from the makers themselves. It also suggested they bring a date, though Hermione hadn't a clue why – but reckoned it was so George and Fred could charm said date and immediately whisk them away. They served the word "Sly" more justice than anyone else, really.

Hermione and Harry went together, as friends. They were both without dates and reckoned they needn't bother since it was last minute anyhow. It was unlikely they'd get dates so quickly.

It was an epic party; there were no objections about that. They'd rented out a great hall, blasted music with a thumping bass that made almost every girl's skirt fly up (not coincidentally, Hermione knew), and carted in sweets that filled five whole tables. Everyone knew that it had some amusing side affect at their own expense, but in the spirit of the jolly high, they consumed them anyway. And so the room was filled with people that shone like newly polished trophies, hair that blinked colors similar to the rainbow variety, tentacles growing from their ears, and hair growing from their ankles – and, once grown out, inexorably tripping people.

To answer that burning question, yes, it did produce a fair amount of laughs. It was like a circus show by midnight.

There were more, but that was when Hermione found her memory blanking out, quite oddly. She hadn't remembered eating any of the sweets, instead inspecting every assortment for anything humor relief-free. She found punch that Seamus insisted that he'd brought, and therefore wasn't Weasley-infected in any way, so Hermione trusted him. She filled herself up a happy cup of punch, and she sat herself down to enjoy the night's festivities.

Little did she know, not even Seamus knew that George and Fred had added a little something to spice the punch up. After all, punch that was Just Punch was awfully dull and did not abide with the motive of their party. So they slipped in a little something, eager to try it out.

Imagine Hermione's shock when Harry had told her in the morning that, after downing immense amounts of Just Punch, she'd started to giggle like a school girl drugged all the way to Pluto, shamelessly insisting on conjuring a Karaoke machine so she could sing some horrible Madonna song about virgins and touching. Harry had to carry her away before a riot could break out, and he did not fail to inform her that it wasn't exactly the easiest task when she was still teeming with laughter and singing that awful Madonna song.

"George and Fred want to thank you, though," said Harry early in the morning, yawning. His black hair was mussed to the extent that he almost resembled (the respectable) Robert Smith that her cousins were always raving on about. "You were the funniest of the lot. They want to give you an award. They also want to know if that song – you know, the Madonna song – had a very special meaning to you." He began to flush brightly, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about passing along the quip, but immediately started to chuckle to himself. "Virgins and getting touched for the very first time."

"Harry!" she'd exclaimed in a shrill pitch, banging her coffee mug on the table, causing her plate to rattle in front of her. "_Honestly_!"

And so she'd had to endure her whole morning with the knowledge that she'd blurted out Madonna's 'Like A Virgin' in a "sparkling performance" (as scored by Fred and George Weasley, the instigating gits of the whole situation) in between laughing herself to death and looking remarkably like she'd gone and lost all her wits. She'd told Harry to drop it, had even threatened him, but he still laughed whenever he looked at her.

Now she was really regretting staying home from work today. And so, in an effort to elude Harry Potter's jokes (they were quite unbearable), she pulled on a coat and told him she'd be popping by the bookstore and would be staying there until he could contain his immaturity.

This was before lunch.

And then, God help her, she got home, forgetting all about the Madonna rubbish. Hermione didn't know what she was thinking, or what spell somebody had cast on her or what evil brew someone had mixed into her drink – all she knew was: she'd skimmed through a Martha Stewart book that someone had left lying on the floor in the Philosophy section of the bookstore and felt the surge of sudden confidence in her cooking skills. What cooking skills, she hadn't even the fuzziest clue, but she reckoned she must have some buried deep inside her. After all, all females were born with that special ability, right? Even females who had recently just gained the tendency of singing an awful eighties song when drunk silly? Just like how men had been born with their laughable fancy for power tools and violence?

Hermione Granger, then, could and should be a fantastic cook.

Should.

And so she'd brought out her mum's dusty cookbook, cleaned it off, and flipped through its yellowed pages for a recipe. She finally came upon a page that included a salmon bisque and chicken. It looked fairly hard, and Hermione wasn't very well acquainted with cooking lingo, but she was enticed by the challenge. She was fairly excellent in Potions, how hard could cooking be?

She'd never cooked before. At least, not really. But she found most of the necessary ingredients in their refrigerator and cupboards and just as she was trying to read the cookbook, she faced another distraction. Really, how was she going to ever cook if Harry kept bloody pestering her? First about last night, and now _this_? Now she really wished he'd gone to work today.

Hermione eyed him, her brown eyes darkening with suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to owl Ron," Harry informed her. "He's going to wet himself with laughter once he hears about you _cooking_."

"Harry!" she exclaimed. "Why is it such a bloody big deal? So I want to cook – you should be ecstatic! You haven't had a home-cooked meal since we went to the Burrow a month ago!"

Harry stopped. Then he turned around, grinning. "You see, Hermione," he tried to explain quite seriously – but failed miserably. "You're good at reading, studying, scolding, hitting, test-taking, shouting—"

Hermione raised the ladle to her shoulder, scowling at him. "I hope you're going somewhere with this."

"I am," Harry insisted. "It's just that… well, it's just common knowledge that… you can't cook."

"And how would you know? I haven't even tried!"

"Exactly. We didn't want to give you the opportunity to burn the house down and possibly harm yourself and others in the process," Harry said.

"Harry Potter, get out of the kitchen and do _not_ owl Ron or else I will chuck this at your face" – she fetched the serving knife and held it up for him to see, gleaming immaculately in the light – "and _not_ miss."

Harry only laughed. "All right then, Hermione. Just keep your wand handy. We'd only just gotten this flat last year and I wouldn't want to be homeless at eighteen."

Hermione scoffed, giving him a final glare, before turning back to her cookbook, mumbling to herself about the idiocy of the male species. Where did Harry get off, anyhow? He couldn't cook to save his life. How could he possibly know that she didn't harbor any fantastic cooking skills – that she couldn't even possibly be the next household phenomenon right after Martha? He didn't, that was how! Besides, Martha was getting quite off on her years. After getting chucked into prison, there wasn't much interest in her creations on her show anymore. People just watched it to see if she might finally crack on national television or perhaps throw one of her infamous fits.

Apparently, people got quite a laugh from celebrity tempers.

"Right," Hermione muttered, trying to gather all of her concentration. She was determined to make Harry Potter eat his words. "Half one lemon and squeeze over the chicken…" She reached for a lemon and retrieved the knife from one of the drawers, dividing it precisely in the middle. She carefully squeezed the lemon halves over the chicken before tossing them out, brushing off her hands and looking on for the next set of directions.

And so she continued to prepare the uncooked chicken, frantically fussing over the ingredients and the measurements. Her genuinely finical nature made it tremendously disastrous. She'd thought it wouldn't be much different from Potions, what with the directions and following them, but what was it about cooking that sent her into such disorder? Could Harry possibly be right? Could she have been possibly born without the special ability to cook – unlike most girls? This frightened her. Suddenly she felt the need to do it so perfectly that she pounded her fist and it pummeled a lemon half lying on the counter and it spurted lemon juice into her eye.

After all, that was how it was in the world, right? Proving people wrong? Proving that they were better than the judgments and misconceptions formed every single day by haughty, self-assured people?

Well, today Hermione Granger was going to climb her Everest.

She was going to cook this chicken so perfectly that Harry Potter was going to shed tears just eating it and fall to his knees and apologize and beg for her to cook more.

Okay, maybe that was going a bit too far, but still.

Mission accomplished.

Alas, she finally finished cooking after an hour's worth of prepping. She read over the directions again, re-read, and then looked to make sure it was how it should look (though how she could know how it should look, she didn't know, since there wasn't a picture of that). She couldn't help but smile proudly at her great accomplishment as she slid the chicken in the oven (especially after Harry had come by and laughed at her again and she'd wanted to throw the ladle at his face), although she was a tad nervous for reason that she'd had to estimate the minutes to let it bake for the lower part of the recipe had been severely blotted with some unknown – though questionable – substance, and was therefore unreadable.

NowHermione had been going to rub it in her flatmate's face in the light of her proud glory, but it was then he'd chosen to go to the loo, and, while waiting for him, she'd picked up the Daily Prophet. She was rather amused to find the headline on the front page: _Newly-Established Auror Captures Death Eater_. She was highly skeptical of it at first, looking at it curiously yet her face appearing immensely perturbed, since it was rather rare any Auror at all – let alone a newbie – caught a Death Eater. She supposed it was just some scam, especially once she observed the picture of the so-called Auror.

He was tall and skinny, even a bit awkward-looking, and seemed to be around the age of her, Harry and Ron. But his smile was so wide and massive (and arrogant) it was almost frightening. He stood straight, shoulders broadened and perky, showing off his medal with his gangly arms protruding from the loose sleeves of his expensive robes. He held a trophy in the other hand as it gleamed from the flashes of the photographers' cameras, beaming so haughtily at the public that it made Hermione want to laugh at him and scorn him at the same time.

"Bloody show-off," she mumbled as she read the other articles. After twenty minutes, however, it was clear to her that Harry had occupied himself by taking a bath. He'd always been one to take his time showering. Hermione preoccupied herself by rearranging the picture frames in the living area (which only consisted of a fireplace, two couches, a coffee table and some shelves since it was rather small). She also began dusting. She was finical about dusting as well, if that was not already a given.

She was fixing all of her books on the shelf (apparently, the last time Ron had visited, he had muddled it up just to infuriate her) alphabetically – and by color sometimes if there were two versions – when she heard knocking. Unfortunately, she was still trying to decide which _Hogwarts: A History_ would be appropriate to put first. She had six different versions, including one in French and Italian. It was quite a mind-numbing activity to her, since she had to take into account how the rest of the bookshelf was arranged as well. There was a special particular order she liked it in.

Biting her lip and looking at the covers of each one, she told them to hold on.

The knocking resumed.

"Hermione, who is that knocking?" she finally heard Harry say as she heard the familiar rusty creak of the bathroom door opening. Sometimes she got the gist that their flat was older than they were. That noisy hinge had been bothering her for months now.

"I don't know," she told him, not looking up from the books. Which edition would only add to the soigné advantage of her bookshelf? A query, indeed, for Hermione who was now nibbling on her bottom lip – a habit from her early days that she'd never been able to rid herself off.

"Don't think you could answer it, then?" Harry said amusedly. "I'm just going to go dry up. Answer it, will you?"

"Who is it?" Hermione called out, rather irritated with the perpetual knocking, still struggling with her uncertainty.

The relentless pounding persisted on the door. It had even seemed to strengthen in force if she had the sense to listen closely. There was urgency vibrating from the knocker's – sore by now, she rightly assumed – rapping knuckles.

"Who is that?" she mumbled to herself as she got up, finally deciding to put the English versions first, then the Special Editions, then the French, then the Italian. She hastily shoved them in, one after the other as the knocking became boisterous. She grabbed the insentient glass figurine Mrs. Weasley had sent them from the shelf, using the base of her shirt to rub away the dust, heading towards the door. "Seems perfectly intent on murdering our door… Who is it?" she called again, before reaching for the doorknob with the ornament still in her hand, unlocking the door, and pulling it open.

Perhaps it was one of those door-to-door salesmen again, selling encyclopedias or hokey cleaning tools. Though Hermione did like going through the encyclopedias, she shooed out the other sorts of salesmen. There were quite a lot in this area, especially those from real estate.

But it wasn't.

Oh, no. It wasn't at all.

She felt as if the breath had been brutally knocked out of her as she stared at what the door revealed, standing on their doorstep. The fine-spun spool of thought she'd been relying on for the last few months gave away, flailing in the air in front of her like a lost ribbon in the wind, quickly unraveling as it spun out of her hands and out of control. And here she thought she'd just tucked each and every one of her loose ends back in for certain this time. She lost control over her jaw, hence its becoming instantaneously slack with shock, her eyes widening at an extraordinary size and her head suddenly pounding with a ferocity she didn't recall she'd ever felt before. Her heart, she assumed, had possibly frozen itself in surprise, but as seconds passed and she simply stared at the image in front of her, refusing to believe that this was real, or even a mere semblance of reality; she felt blood begin to rush through her body again.

Bloody hell.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Somehow, it just seemed too surreal. It was if she could reach out to him, but she'd only feel the air of nothingness slip through her fingers, and he would simply vanish, like a mere but painful figment of her longing imagination.

And Hermione, in all of her shock, felt the porcelain snowman slip from her fingers. She supposed it shattered, as it would only be logical to assume so, but she didn't hear the strident, dominating sound of it shattering against the hard wooden floor. No, there was a white noise roaring inside of her ears now, like the bellow of an unforgiving sea, and she reckoned that that had easily swallowed it up. Or, perhaps, in her cruel momentary shock of seeing what she only hoped was a ghost from her past and not really an actuality she was going to be forced to face yet again, she had gone deaf. The howling in her ears – something she concluded was only another trickery of her cerebral functions, perhaps a malfunction or the sort – overwhelmed her. She felt jolts of electricity leaping within her veins like sprightly dolphins in the Caribbean.

He, apparently, hadn't been expecting to see her either, if the look he had on his face was any indication. With his silver eyes remarkably enlarged, his face as white as a sheet (then again, he'd always been that pale so the difference was questionable), and a look of pure shock molded on the handsome yet treacherous features of his pure-blood face, he looked at her as if he was having difficulties mulling over this reality, as well. And, well, she couldn't blame him at all for that, could she? Who would have thought he'd be standing on their doorstep after one entire year? One entire year of nothing, absolutely nothing at all – except of trying to get her life back on track (after he'd sadistically derailed her) and trying to forget all about that supercilious prick?

Hermione knew that seeing him again was inevitable, especially with the legendary Hogwarts reunions she kept hearing about, but she would have been lying if the thought of running into him if she didn't have to hadn't fueled the idea of moving back to the Muggle world. Even now, she felt tinny wires of fear thread through her petite, bookish body just thinking about it. Some extensive measures had been taken to avoid seeing this bastard's prat-face again.

Yet here they were. Only a few feet of distance betwixt them. How ironically this world worked.

She blinked furiously, failing to believe this was their palpable dimension. No matter how hard she tried, she was still incredulous. How _couldn't_ she be? _Draco Malfoy was standing in front of her_. She didn't want to believe it. Not now. Not ever. What on _earth_ could _Draco Malfoy_ be doing on their doorstep? In fact, what was he even _doing_ in the _Muggle world_? Seeing him here, like a terrible nightmare gone wrong, had to be the worst. The undeniable, atrocious incongruency of his sophisticated clothes and blond hair in the Cheshire Fox vicinity was just too cruel. It _couldn't_ be real. Could it?

"_Malfoy_?" she found herself spitting, her head pounding, still reeling from surprise. As she said his name her lungs jerked from its place, colliding against her ribs and giving her a sharp impression of pain for the quickest of seconds. She even almost felt her knees buckle underneath her. She hadn't uttered his name ever since she'd left Hogwarts exactly one year ago. Never felt the need to. In fact, she hadn't been planning to say his name ever again.

Leave it to fate to muck all that up.

For a reason far too unfathomable for her to even admit, she felt a burst of pain in her chest. Like little internal fireworks that tore all of her arteries to grotesque pieces, slowly wrecking havoc on her body, inside out. All at once, she was tackled by a turbulent tide of furious emotions like a crushing wave, leaving her with a heavy feeling stacking in her lungs, a horribly dry throat, and a spiraling, monstrous whirlwind in her skull. There was a little tornado causing chaos in that little cranium of hers, she simply knew it. After all, how could her head suddenly pummel itself inwards and outwards at the same sodding time with such viciousness like an awful hangover? How could her body erupt with shivers just at the wintry familiarity of his eyes, yet instantly warm with humming heat?

Quickly composing herself, she took a deep breath and shoved all unnecessary thoughts and feelings away. She tried to hide her shock like a true professional and looked at him, massively disturbed by his presence. Looking at him more, his astonishment rapidly skittering behind his structured cheekbones and scowling lips, she felt a tumor of bottled anger begin to leak and fizz like a badly shaken soda can. She clenched her hands beside her, feeling the slight moisture in her skin as she did, swallowing hard with growing impatience and annoyance, glowering as effectively as she could.

"Granger," he acknowledged her in his imperious drawl.

There, hearing his voice, she felt almost her entire body shake. She didn't know why. Or how. But she wasn't feeling the most stable right now and all of her riotous emotions, like a swarm of insects led by a warm desert breeze, felt as if they had crash-landed inside of her.

And Hermione, hearing his intonation, so indifferent from the last time she had heard him that it was utterly offensive, felt her blood boil. She knew that if she were to consider her rational side, she wouldn't have any reason to hate him. After all, what had happened, happened. There was no undoing it. She'd long gotten over him and his malicious ways, and the crippling pain that came with her memories of him had faded with time. All it took was time. All it took was knowing how to refocus on the path she wanted to take and how to finally begin her new phase in life. She shouldn't be angry with him anymore.

But she wasn't a bloody saint, now, was she? She couldn't help it. Deep down, no matter how much time had gone by and how conveniently she had healed herself, she still remembered how he hurt her. And the Dark Mark. She'd always remember the Dark Mark. And that, regardless of how much she tried to furiously deny it, hurt her all over again.

She was just to open her mouth to say something – what she was going to possibly say to him that didn't involve curses or bad names, she didn't know – when she heard footsteps behind her. She looked down immediately, flustered, when she knew Harry was behind her, as if ashamed to have kept Draco Malfoy's gaze for so long without attempting to kill him. Immediately, her body tensed even more than it had already been before. She felt wound tight, as if any time now, if she were pulled tighter and stretched more, she would snap.

Her head spun. She saw flashes of the Dark Mark imprinted on his ivory skin, permanently burned into his forearm, and she felt her throat tighten with such intensity that she wanted nothing but to turn away. She felt as if she would suddenly do something spiteful to him – not to mention harmful – if she kept to this spot. Memories of him yelling at her, of his angry, enraged face pummeled her. She looked down at her feet, breathing heavily.

_I don't love you._

Of course that was to be expected. She knew that. She, herself, wasn't even certain if _she'd_ loved him. She'd been young and naïve, and blind-sighted by the possibility of trite love.

She hated love.

"_Malfoy_?" he said, disbelievingly. Harry's green eyes were wide with surprise and suspicion. He neared them, stopping right beside a grim Hermione.

Draco immediately diverted his gaze to the purpose of this whole mission. He tried his hardest to conceal the fierce momentum of his heart, pounding against his chest like a ticking bomb, his mind hazy and inconveniently fuzzy from his unexpected surprise. However, as he looked at Potter's bothered face, adorned with a not-so-flattering expression that hinted physical danger, his glasses flashing like monstrous, oversized silver coins, he couldn't help but unfocusedly stare. By Merlin, he was too overwhelmed. His stomach was clenching spastically that it should have been considered a health hazard. Why on earth was Hermione Granger in Harry Potter's flat? Why now, of all the days, had she had to visit? And why, after one entire year, was he still feeling as if he had been hit with an outrageously strong stunning spell after seeing her? And what about that churning feeling in his stomach that sent provocative chills through his skin?

He fought to contain himself. Granger present or not, he would not make himself appear like a fool. He, after all, still had dignity.

However little it was.

Stupid Dumbledore. Stupid Snape. Stupid Mother.

He calmly addressed him, ignoring the woman staring at him with a stern blend of a look between anger and forced composure. He could feel her gaze burning into him, and that was enough for him to know that her dogmatic nature still hadn't changed.

"Potter," he drawled, his eyes grave on his. "We've got to talk."

Harry furrowed his brows at him, looking immensely disturbed. "What could we _possibly_ have to talk about, Malfoy?" he said coldly. "Now, if you would just leave – what are you _doing_ here, anyway?" he pried, stepping past Hermione and looking down the corridor to see if the he had led anyone there. He looked back at him. "How did you get our address?" he asked threateningly.

"Don't act stupid, Potter," Draco snarled, tired of this Brave Hero nonsense. It was getting to be too cliché for him to bear. "You only gave your address to _one_ other person besides Weasley. It shouldn't be overly hard to figure that out."

Harry glared at him. "Malfoy, leave. Right now. I don't know what you're up to, but you have _no_ business—"

"I was sent here on an important and urgent matter of business," Draco interrupted, trying to clarify his motive. Potter, he should have remembered, was particularly insufferable. He had a head as thick as wool. Maybe even thicker. He was already having a hard time trying to keep down his temper. He acted as if he was the Queen of sodding England, throwing his words about with such authority.

Harry stared at him. His expression was grave, and then, to Draco's surprise, transcended into one of exasperation. He sighed. "Bloody hell, Malfoy, you aren't trying to sell us a house, are you?"

"No!" Draco exclaimed, giving him a look of disbelief.

Oh, Good Merlin. This was going to be harder than he thought.

And all because Harry Potter was a dim-witted elephant. And this was a year later! Whoever said that with age came wisdom was apparently lying, because it seemed very clear to him that there were some people like Potter in the world who just got even dumber with each month that passed! It was so ridiculous that Draco – for the first time in his life – didn't even want to revel in his stupidity.

"_No_, Potter!" he shouted. "For Merlin's sake, I'd never be a damned _home_ merchant in _Muggle_ London! I have _dignity_, you know! Now, will you just bloody let me in?" he demanded. "Or does that hideous scar not only hinder your already wretched appearance but impair the functions of your brain as well?"

"Why?" Harry snapped. "For all _I_ know, you could be some escaped _mental_ patient and pyromaniac from St. Mungo's set on _burning_ my flat down! As far as I can see, I owe you _nothing_ to even let you step in here, you pasty bastard—"

Then, surprisingly, Potter was interrupted by someone else other than Draco. There was a hint of mystification and dawning urgency in her voice, her brown eyes flashing with realization.

"Speaking of burning," Hermione Granger irrelevantly interjected. "Don't you smell something?"

Harry broke off his rant, and both Draco and Harry looked at her, nonplussed. Draco almost wanted to step back from the violent gush of somersaults his stomach was performing, which he assumed was just another side affect of the violent shock of seeing her here after not expecting to at all. Being too close to her was dangerous, and he knew that Potter knew it too, for he looked up and caught the menacing glare he was sending him. His grimace was so heated all he needed was the crimson pitchfork and his look would have been complete.

Draco sneered at him. "It smells like smoke," he spoke clearly, shifting his gaze back to the brunette girl. "I advise you two to get your senses attuned, because it appears that something is—"

"_Burning_!" Hermione suddenly shouted frantically. "Oh _Merlin!_ The _chicken_! The bloody _chicken!"_ Frighteningly bug-eyed, forgetting all about the un-foretold drop-in of Draco Malfoy, she quickly bent down, her russet curls whizzing after her, trying to gather up all the shards of the broken snowman in her hands – not caring at all of the serious hazards of holding glass in your bare hands (which disturbed Draco) – before she stood up and dashed to the kitchen. Draco's stare followed after her, subconsciously trying to remember if she moved just as quick as she moved before, feeling a tinny _ping_ reverberate off the sides of his hollow, rusting chest.

But as Draco's ice-colored eyes flickered to the man standing before him (who was still shorter than him, by the way – and a year was more than enough for height growth), he noticed the threatening scowl Harry Potter had simmering on his face like the upshot of a bad day. Yes, the Golden Boy _could_ look particularly mean if he put his back into it. But when Draco looked at him he still saw the same awkward, revolting Gryffindor, and so it still looked quite ridiculous to him.

"Look, Malfoy," he growled in an undertone, "if you're here about Hermione—"

At first, Draco hadn't a single fuzziest clue what the fool was talking about. But as his words struck him – predominantly the phrase "Here About Hermione" – he felt a great punch depressing itself right in his gut, almost overwhelming him. His words fled from his mouth before he even thought about answering him, his mind frantic.

"No!" Draco harshly said, his eyes narrowing with spite. "I'm not here for _her_!" He felt heat creeping along the back of his neck as he remembered Potter knew all about his past relationship with Granger. His hands balled into fists, his tensed shoulders squaring. He didn't know why he felt angry, or even betrayed, at the fact that Granger had told Potter. He had to have known that – didn't he? Potter had known about them. How else was she to explain the lack of her disappearances? How else was she to explain the simple detail that she hadn't shot him a look – not even one – that last week she had been in school? Or that for a boy she had been so smitten with, she hadn't even told him a measly goodbye? How was she to explain that to her best friend, Harry sodding Potter?

"Good," he said gravely, and Draco's wintry eyes narrowed. The word sent chills through him that he didn't like at all. But as they simply stared each other down in a sort of unspoken challenge, thick, crackling tension bound between them, both unwavering and unflinching, Harry Potter's sobriety was suddenly interrupted by his annoyance. "Then _why_ are you here?" he demanded lowly. "And how in the bloody hell did you find me? If I ever find out you stole the information, Malfoy, I swear I'll—"

"What? Report me to Azkaban and lock me up?" he hissed. "Look, _Potter_, I can't talk about it out here." However, he did still want to punch him (outside or inside, it didn't really matter as the effects would not differ) because of his High and Mighty attitude. Draco Malfoy really hated Harry Potter – that was no lie. Couldn't ever be exaggerated, either. Nobody else saw it, but he did, oh yes, he did. While everybody else was busy drooling all over his stupid, ugly battle scars, Draco had seen the arrogance and superiority just festering beneath that wretched appearance.

Thus, it only further proved just how insanely hypocritical they were. Spitting at _him_ for being arrogant and prejudice and malicious – look at Harry Potter! Did _he_ turn the other cheek? Well, _did he_? As far as Draco could account for, there was no cheek-turning to be acknowledged. So, at the end of the day, no matter what Harry Potter did, he was just as bad as the rest of them. Lightning bolt scar (Draco did not concur with that depiction; he rather much thought it'd looked like a rooster had gone berserk on him – which, he couldn't say he blamed the animal for that, either. He had always heard roosters were a good judge of character)… or not.

Harry gave him a vicious glare before making to close the door on him. Draco stopped him, putting his hand right on the edge, preventing him from being able to. He wanted to mangle the idiot. "Bloody _hell_, Potter!" Draco snapped impatiently, reaching the end of his wire. _Why_ on _earth_ were Gryffindors so insufferable? "It's about the Dark Lord, all right? Now will you just—" but before he could finish, Harry had already pulled him in and hastily shut the door closed, the door frame rattling loudly behind them from his forceful aggression.

"_Damn it_, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, breathing hard. He looked frenzied, his glasses somewhat askew on the crook of his nose. "Someone could have _heard!"_

"And _whose_ fault would that be, Potter?"

"_Yours!_" they shouted at each other, in unison.

"Malfoy, a year later, and you're _still_ a git," Harry Potter said to him, scowling, all the while fixing his glasses, as if it would make him more menacing. Draco, meanwhile, wondered why he hadn't caught the uncanny resemblance between him and Sybill Trelawney before. Why, they looked almost like twins to him now! The hideous round glasses, scraggly, untamable hair… And then there was, of course, the personality so far beyond the pale to even _consider_ bearing.

"Likewise," Draco retaliated with a scornful twinge to his voice. Who did Potter think he was, anyhow? Mother Teresa? What was _he_ doing that made him so special? Living at a convent? Reading to the blind?

But as Harry was to say something – something unwittingly yet obviously dense, Draco reckoned – they heard coughing. Their heads snapped to their right, their attentions caught, where they discovered in horror that the kitchen was now completely bathed in obscuring billows of gray smoke. The strong smell of it, sharp and undeniably unpleasant, stung his nose and lungs and clung onto his clothes.

Harry headed towards the kitchen, his strides incensed with urgency, and Draco found himself heading to the smoke as well, not too far behind.

"Stay _there_, Malfoy!" Harry yelled, glimpsing behind him, yet not stopping to force Draco back into the living area when he found that he was doing the exact opposite of what he had told him to do.

"Like hell, Potter!"

The smokescreen immediately blinded them as they stepped into the pungently masked room. He couldn't make out anything at all, no furniture or anything to hint off his boundaries, as Draco covered his mouth with his hand, hearing coughs somewhere nearby, blindingly trying to make his way through the kitchen. But as he inhaled, the harshness of the smoke filled his lungs, and his body began to heave as he began to cough uncontrollably, too. His eyes began to water. Squinting through the murky white haze, feeling it almost burn his eyes, he searched for a head of wild brown tresses.

Finally, as he stepped closer towards his right, he could make out a blotch of darkness – another form. He stormed forward, relieved to see that it was indeed her. She was coughing fiercely, wearing ridiculous oven mittens that had yellow sunflowers sewn onto them. And as Draco looked at her, feeling almost as if he had stepped into one of his dreams again, he began to notice with a twisting inside his chest that she hadn't changed at all. Yes, he had never seen her surrounded in smoke before, and perhaps he was merely suffering from delusions that resulted from the smoke clouding his brain, but it seemed as if she was exactly the way he'd last seen her one year ago. Her hair was still the same – thick natural curls that had grown out into russet waves. Her eyes, uncannily, still sent tingles through his skin that jolted each and every one of his nerves to life. Somehow, knowing that no significant change had really affected her, he felt a slight latch of happiness clinging to him.

He didn't know why. He'd always had a fairly easy time letting go of the past, but for some reason he could not explain even if he was asked to, he couldn't ignore theirs. Swallowing hard, feeling the heat clustering up at the base of his throat, his chest tightened as he watched her through the stubborn smoke.

She appeared to be trying to communicate with him, and Draco listened harder through her hacks.

"Wand!" she yelled, but immediately lapsed into another fit of coughs, inopportunely obfuscating her message.

His silver brows hiked up his forehead in bewilderment. "What?"

Uncannily, even through the thick smoke, he could sense it when she was glaring at him. It was like dangerous radiation, or heat rays without the proper SPF sunscreen. All he knew was, he sensed the wave-like impressions of her annoyance and fraying impatience, even after one whole year of absence.

Yes, Draco Malfoy's abilities scared even himself at times.

"_Wand_!"

This time, Draco caught what she had been trying to tell him. His ears ringing with an exceptionally shrill, faint tintinnabulation, he hastily plunged his hand into the pocket of his trousers, mentally reprimanding himself for not thinking of it before, and drew it once he'd grasped the slender wood. He instantaneously recited a spell, the words flying out of his mouth like a mad canary, and as if a massive gust of wind had swept into the room and flounced it away, the smoke cleared. He blinked furiously as his sightlessness vanished, slapping his hand against his chest as he let out one painful cough that swiveled against his scratchy throat.

Granger was in front of him, trying to calm herself down, while Potter was all the way across from them, which, Draco discovered, instilled a great deal of pride inside him. So Harry Potter wasn't a hero all the time. That comforted him.

Then, as they had finally composed their coughing fits, getting used to clean air once again, and sighed with relief, Draco noticed the… black _thing,_ she had in a tray on the floor in front of her. It was sitting in an undyingly ruined metal plate that still had trails of smoke rising from its edges. One of its sides had a little purple flame dancing atop of it, which Draco had extinguished with a single water spell as soon as he had seen.

He furrowed his brows. "And what exactly _is_ that?" he inquired in puzzlement. "A smoker's lungs?"

Hermione glanced up at him, a scowl gracing her pale, solemn face. Then she moved her scowl to the black thing on the tray, as if it had wronged her in some way. She looked as if she would have wanted to harm it if it weren't already dead, whatever it was. She looked extremely contemptuous.

"It's a _chicken_," she spat.

"You're joking," Draco began to laugh, amused with the turnout of this… chicken. It looked nothing like a chicken at all, it was ridiculous. He wanted to tell her that it was so nonsensical-looking she should sue, but he didn't. The vicious look scrawled on her face when she looked at him was already a clear-cut warning that he needed to watch his words. So, instead, he said nothing, his face falling into an impassive expression as she hoisted up the tray with her sunflower mittens (which he noticed had burn marks printed across of them) to the counter beside the sink. There she sighed heavily and Draco simply watched her, unmoving, for a moment.

"I take it that burning things isn't just for special occasions, is it?" he smirked.

"Shut up and stay here," said Harry Potter, obviously not in a very humorous mood. "I'm going to go owl Dumbledore. I'm going to find out what it is you're up, to, Malfoy, and when I do, I expect to see you in that same spot. Malfoy, don't go anywhere, do you hear me? And Hermione, if he tries anything, don't let him." And then, with one final bone-chilling glare, he disappeared into his room.

Thus, Draco Malfoy was left alone in the kitchen with Hermione Granger.

But as Draco watched her, bewilderment waved over him at the realization of Harry Potter's lack of a reaction towards his probable Death Eater future that he knew (it was no secret what Gryffindor House gabbed around the halls) they had all actively speculated about. Quite obviously, if Harry Potter had known about what he'd pulled on Granger (the fake Dark Mark) to cause such sore feelings between them now, he'd never have even let him step a single toe into this place, let alone leave him alone in the kitchen with a wandless Granger. Although, in all fairness, he wouldn't necessarily call her _totally_ defenseless; she did have that burnt coal of a chicken that he assumed probably weighed as much as a small person, and he had a strong feeling that if she were just to throw it at him she could very well possibly kill him. Or just temporarily pin him down while she went into her drawers and whipped out her butcher knife.

He looked at her, a serious look dawning on his face. He tensed, not quite knowing what her reason was for hiding such a thing from her friend. Perhaps she hadn't told him everything, after all. But why? Why, out of everything, had she purposely neglected telling Potter about the Dark Mark on his forearm? Or had she forgotten? But even that seemed out of the question. He knew she couldn't have forgotten, not now, not ever. It was the sort of thing that Draco knew would stick to a person forever, like a bad scar. And while Hermione Granger was probably the single fiercest female of her age, she wasn't immune to things like pain. He knew that. He'd _seen_ that.

Because, the truth of it was: no one was. Not even him, it turned out. Not even close.

"You didn't tell him, did you?" he asked her. He'd thought it'd have been the first thing she'd told him because it was only logical to think so – after all, it was a well known fact that nothing excited these Gryffindors like a justified reason to start a blood hunt for their favorite Slytherin. They'd have had the Ministry tailing his arse, not to mention Potter leading the massacre… but why hadn't it happened? Why had Granger chosen to keep his Dark Mark – even if it was fake, which, even if she had told the Ministry, they would have found out eventually and would've been forced to let him go – a secret? Or had she told Potter and he'd simply just forgotten? Although that _was_ highly unlikely. He knew that they fancied keeping in mind his soi-disant enormity and would have actually pounced at the opportunity to chuck him behind bars with the soul-sucking Dementors.

She froze from his words, her limbs momentarily immobile. But then she commenced moving again, though awkwardly and stiffly, slipping off her sunflower mittens. She ignored his question.

"I see you haven't lost your touch for boorish hilarity," she said instead, rather coldly, her words frigid and biting in the tense air. They could have grown icicles in here if he'd had the sense to stick around all year long. "Never did miss that." She tried to dump the completely burnt chicken into the waste can, scraping it off the tray. The shrill sound of metal on metal screeched in his ears, causing him to impulsively grit his teeth. Draco's smirk vanished, feeling the aged wound inside his chest begin to slightly throb. He began to remember things he'd been too shocked to remember before. Flashes of hazy, Technicolor activity in his slurring skull, memories of the past he'd long buried. With her. And he felt as if, for some reason he did not know, he had been plunged back into his last year at Hogwarts.

He was suddenly at the corridor again, remembering the last time he had ever seen her. The way he had simply stared at her for moments easily mistaken for small increments of eternity, realizing what he had never wanted to realize – what could have inexorably be the death of him – and deciding that he would tell her the last thing any Malfoy would ever dare tell anyone. That he loved her.

But – and how brilliant was this – he never did. And he didn't know, couldn't possibly, whether he was jubilant about that or resentful. Couldn't one simply be both? Or was that cheating? Or was it brilliant?

"Now, Granger," he said, humor no longer in his tone, "there's no need for hostility." The chicken landed inside the waste can with a solid thud, on cue with the leap of his heart, as she looked up at him. Her brown eyes were dark and just as fierce and defiant as he remembered them.

Underneath the murky exterior of her orbs that he could, unfortunately, recognize anywhere, he could see the toiling, breathing, and intoxicating hate she held for him. She could hold it in. Anyone could. But what Draco knew was that hate was sprouted and nurtured by many other things than anger or bitterness, or hurt. He could see all of them now, like a melting pot of every emotion one could possibly find, enmeshed into two counterparts of a tumultuous sea. He knew her. He knew that the last thing she had ever wanted to see in her lifetime was him standing on her best friend's doorstep.

And he understood. He perfectly did. After all, the feeling was mutual. He figured he himself could've done just fine without seeing her again.

Hermione clenched her jaw, her temper bubbling inside her like a reminder of what he had done. Her chest felt restricted and bound by thick, cutting rope. It then occurred to her that perhaps the kitchen wasn't the safest place to be when she was angry – after all, the sharp kitchen utensils were just two drawers away, within her arm's reach. Instant, easy access. Or was that a good thing? She didn't know, and so she tried to imagine him with a butter knife (blunt knives were much worse than sharp ones) sticking out of his forehead.

"_Hostility?"_ she whispered to him, enraged. "You _can't_ just _show_ up here and _expect_ that we're going to be friends." Hermione picked up the pan and threw it in the sink with a loud crash, almost making the entire house shake with the noise. "You're not _welcome_ here," she said to him, ruthlessly. "_Not_ by Harry, _not_ by me, _not_ by _anyone_, all _right_?"

Draco glowered at her. "For your information, I didn't expect _anything_," he said to her, his voice expertly mirroring her enmity. "And of course I'm not _welcome_ here, but that isn't the case, is it? I didn't come here voluntarily, so you might as well stop acting as if I'd just crashed your party. I'm here because I was sent on some urgent and important business concerning Potter, not because I'm to give some _bloody_ house blessing," he snapped.

"And what exactly _is_ that?" she hissed. "Your business with him? What could you _possibly_ have to talk about that you couldn't have owled? How did you even _find_ us? God," she suddenly said, shaking her head as she tore her gaze away, slamming another kitchen utensil into the sink with another great clatter, "forget it, I don't even want to know! Knowing you, it's only probably something self-gaining or morbidly sadistic."

But before Draco could tell her exactly to sod off, it wasn't even her business to know in the first place, feeling a smart from her words; the ever-glorious Potter had stormed back in like an unwelcome winter draft.

He stood right in front of Draco, his square jaw set and his eyes tentative yet fierce. "While I'm waiting for a reply from Dumbledore, you're going to explain why you're here," he said seriously. "What do you want, Malfoy? What are you doing here? Obviously it's got to be something big, right? After all, you did come all the way here to Muggle London."

Oh, yes. It was definitely chilly in here; there was no doubt about that.

"Well, it's fairly simple, Potter," Draco drawled, still a bit teed off from Granger's biting retribution. "Let's skip the social niceties, shall we? Point is: I just happen to know a bit of news you might want to know. Of course, telling you would mean you'd have to cooperate with our plans. There's no such a price as free, after all."

"_Whose_ plans?" Harry ground out through his teeth.

"Ours," Draco simply said, refusing to give it out. "I'm afraid I can't disclose that information until you've vowed secrecy and collaboration. Don't you get it, Potter? We're all in just as much danger as you are. And if they find out, then the world as we know it would fall into the hands of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. We want to help you, but by doing so, you've got to help us. We've the same motive," Draco said gravely, making sure he got the point. "And that's to help destroy the Dark Lord. So, what about it? Things are happening, and it'd be foolish to go and try to do this by yourself. To put it quite simply: you aren't ready. We've already rounded up valuable information and we've got spies to provide us with more. Dumbledore's been with this operation since it started, so you needn't concern yourself with that old koot."

"I don't believe you," said Harry, his eyes narrowing into miniscule emerald slits. "Since when do you get off wanting to help us? Since when," Harry annunciated, "did you stop running around with your little cloaked friends causing death and tragedy wherever you go? Since when did you stop kneeling before Voldemort yourself and doing his dirty work? Are you just some double-dealing bastard or are you something else?" His eyes darkened, not even attempting to hide his contempt and mistrust. It sizzled on his every word. "I want you to get out, Malfoy. Right now." Harry pointed at the door. "Dumbledore may trust you, but I don't. Leave now."

Draco's glower intensified, tightly gripping his wand. "Believe me, Potter, if I had any interest in killing you, then I would have left you alone with your burnt poultry and Granger's ghastly cooking skills, which would have quickly started a very nonsensical but tragic house fire, wounding, or, very possibly, even killing you both. But I didn't, did I? That must give you _some_ clue about my intentions, unless you really are as dim-witted as they say, in which case, I wouldn't be surprised at all."

"Your intentions, Malfoy, are as seedy as you are."

"Now, if I had a sickle for every time somebody said that to me," he spat, feeling his temper rise.

"You _liar_," Hermione suddenly said, cutting in. "Get out." Draco looked towards her. She seemed shaken up, pale, and on the verge of tears. Her words were nippy and enraged, yet they wavered as she spoke. She was still in her corner, with the sunflower oven gloves thrown over in the sink. "Leave us alone." Her face was cold and firm, her skin stretched taut and tight. Her eyes were dark and she looked furious, glinting in the muted light. Outside, it began to rain, and Draco could hear the water tapping against their windows. "We wouldn't believe you if you came here selling Bibles."

"Well then, Granger, that just proves that you have very little faith in humankind."

"You, Draco Malfoy," she hissed, "shouldn't flatter yourself by accounting your coal of a heart and devil of a soul as a part of human kind."

"And what about you, Granger?" he suddenly yelled, infuriated. His fiery words surged through the kitchen, wearing the walls, causing the small metal spoons to quiver in their cases. A mitten fell over to the floor. "What makes _you_ more special than the rest of us? Burning chicken and almost setting this entire flat on fire – you can't even _cook_! What is it? Do you think you're so safe beside Potter that Voldemort's not even going to _think_ about touching you? That he's not even going to think about _using_ you in his little plans? Well, you're _wrong_!"

Suddenly, Draco tensed as he felt something sharp and narrow jabbing into his neck. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, as he saw from the corner of his eye that it was Potter. He had drawn his wand. His face was livid, his erect knuckles bulging underneath his taut skin as he forcefully stabbed his wand into his flesh.

"Get out," he whispered irately. "Get out now, or I'll kill you."

There was silence as Draco fumed, seething. His eyes flashed like daggers in the light as he looked at him, his upper lip curling in distaste. He stepped away, defiantly staring down his rival. It struck him as uncanny that they were still like this to this day, but then he realized that perhaps rivalry was one of those things not even time could rub away. Then there was obstinacy and foolishness, but he figured that Potter only needed to be taught a few lessons to jostle his spine. Of course, saying only "a few" was a lie. Ten billion, more like. Then an extra ten billion just for fun.

Sparing one last look at Hermione, he turned and began to walk away. As he exited the kitchen he could feel Potter on his heels like a bloodhound, as if making certain he really was going to be walking out of that door and out of their flat. Like Draco _really_ wanted to stay in this Muggle home a second more. Honestly.

Harry Potter opened the door for him, his face only increasing in its radiating display of animosity. "Leave," he merely said, but even that single word held fire.

"With pleasure," Draco spat, as he stepped out. But then he turned, catching the door as Potter attempted to close it, yet again. His pale hand was clamped against the wooden edge of the door, forcing it back. Their gazes met, burning emerald to frigid silver, as Draco snarled at him.

"It isn't just you, you know, Potter. He's got his eye on someone else, too. Thanks to you, he's after Granger. And he isn't going to stop until he's got you both."

And then Draco let go of the door.

With a vicious glower from him, the door immediately slammed on Potter's face that – even as quick as it was, he was able to catch it – was slowly twisting in bewilderment. Draco turned on his heel and began to walk down the corridor, his feet pounding down on the green carpet with a vengeance, glaring ahead. Then he slowed down because of what seemed like a massive head rush. For a reason he could not fathom, he was suddenly overcome with a fusillade of questions that he wondered why hadn't appeared to him before. He slowed to a dead halt in the hallway, oblivious to the white walls and dull doors, his face mirroring exactly what was humming anxiously in his body now: confusion.

Severe confusion.

Was it just him, or had Hermione Granger been in the process of cooking Harry Potter dinner? An _actual_ dinner? With _chicken_?

Draco's face gave way to slight – yet abundant – horror. He didn't know why he didn't like the idea. That perhaps Hermione Granger was not just visiting and was actually living with Potter and involved in some disgusting romantic relationship, thus the cooking dinner with sodding chicken issue – but it just did. Or maybe it was just a special occasion. Maybe she was cooking because she felt like it. Maybe they were just friends, and she was just being friendly by cooking him chicken. In _his_ flat. With the sunflower mittens. No, Harry Potter did not own sunflower mittens.

After all, _why_ would Potter own sunflower mittens? Did he even _know_ how to use the Muggle oven? It was a well-known fact that Harry Potter was a pretentious elephant, yes, impaired in every possible way and even worse with a Hero mentality, but why on _earth_ sunflowers? Why not rabbits or kittens or puppies or butterflies? Harry Potter just did not seem like a sunflowers kind of boy.

And, why would Granger be answering his door unless they were, in fact, living together?

Draco couldn't mull it over – no, he couldn't. He was horrified by the idea, and he didn't know why. Surely he knew that would happen, that the above scenario would happen… Potter snagging Granger. It was the premonition of all their peers of Hogwarts. They expected Granger and Potter to fall madly in love, get married, and pop out bespectacled, snappish, bucktoothed bookworms with insanely good Quidditch skills (although, the idea of all of those traits in one child was frightening). They were all counting on it. Hogwarts would be shattered if it didn't, in fact, happen.

But he still found it quite a mouthful to digest. In fact, he could not digest it at all. Regardless of how fitting it was, Granger finally finding love in the single most infuriating soul on the universe, he found himself literally reeling in a whirl of nausea. Suddenly, he felt sick. He felt like an idiot, standing here in the middle of a hallway like this, but he didn't care. Granger… living with Potter? He knew that he shouldn't care – should actually be rooting for them since there was no better match than a Hero and a nag _together_ – for what they had was over. Way over. So over that it extended _beyond_ the realms of Over. Into the next dimension. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger had been over ever since he'd magicked that Dark Mark onto his arm.

So, he should be happy. Utterly, utterly happy. There was no reason why he shouldn't be, no reason at all. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

So then why did he find himself gritting his teeth? Why was he sneering even worse than before? Why did he feel like marching right back up there and punching the living daylights out of him?

Because anyone was better than Potter. Except Weasley, of course, but anyone else. He'd lost the Snitch to Potter. He'd lost the House Cup to Potter. He didn't need another rivalry; he didn't need another loss to tally beside Saint Potter. Why couldn't she have chosen _someone else_? There were loads of single men in Britain. Not all of them were good-looking, sure, and not all of them were particularly clever. Then again, neither was Potter. So why had she chosen _him_? Now, he was certain of it, just like everything else: she would just become another accomplishment to rub in his face. Something that Draco Malfoy had lost and something that Harry Potter had won.

He began to walk again, his fists clenching beside him. His mind was chattering like an angry swarm of bees, buzzing inside his head without relent, and he remembered the feeling that had erupted throughout his whole body when he'd first seen her when she'd opened the door. Strange as it was, she'd looked exactly the way she'd looked a year ago standing underneath that doorframe. It was peculiar, yet as her face flashed inside his head again like an image trying to burn itself into his brain, he felt sharp tingles race across his skin.

Then, Draco tensed as he heard the hard slam of a door behind him. He heard footsteps running towards him, beating against the muffling carpet, and before he could turn around to see exactly whom it was storming towards him like a goring bull, a steel grip had firmly wound itself around his arm. Draco's head snapped to his right, where he was met with a familiar bespectacled sight: Harry Potter.

His green eyes glinting, he growled something to Draco, but before Draco could register exactly what it was he'd said and rightfully jerk away from his righteous clutches, still feeling a thundering urge to really murder him right now for falling for Granger, he felt a sudden tug from his surroundings as if he was getting snatched right out of his place. He quickly glanced down at his feet, as with a resounding _Pop!_ in his ears, they disappeared.

And Hermione Granger, hastily running out of their flat door, only found herself looking down an empty corridor.

* * *

**A/N: **So? How'd I do? Was this a good comeback for Draco Malfoy, or not? Please let me know (although, don't be too harsh for I don't think my poor heart can take it) and **review**!

**P.S.** I'd also like to thank the peeps that incessantly tagged my tagboard at my site, threatening me to update and saying all of these nice things – your loyalty means a lot to me. So, ten imaginary Galleons will be mailed to you via owl along with a lock of Draco Malfoy's hair, courtesy of – who else? – moi. (winks)


	2. After Effects of Unexpected Apparating

If It Was You

**A/N: **Thanks to all who read and reviewed! I heartedly welcome all of my loyal, old fans back as well as some new ones! Now, you must have some questions, and they hopefully will be answered in due time, so patience is key. But probably one of the most common is the one about Harry and Hermione. No, Harry and Hermione are not together. They are living together, but only as friends, so you needn't worry yourself about that. Now, on to the good stuff!

**The After-Effects of Unexpected Apparating**

With a cool wind whirling all around him, an indescribable close murmuring droning boisterously inside his ears, Draco Malfoy found himself almost falling over when he felt the familiar yet unexpected _oomph!_ of the hard ground beneath his feet. His knee sockets shook as the effects of unexpected Apparating took its toll on him. His head spun rather actively as if there was a marathon track around his skull, his skin cold and alive with sharp tingles. His breaths were ragged; he felt as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

There was a solid grip on his arm still, almost painful, yet it helped Draco keep his balance. He blinked furiously, trying to regain the clarity of what was once his twenty-twenty vision. But as the fogginess around him cleared, he did not even so much as glimpse at his surroundings and instead looked beside him with a shout of anger toiling inside his parched throat, glaring to the best of his currently wobbly ability at the culprit of these unsteady sensations plaguing him.

"Potter!" Draco shouted, violently flinging his arm away. He swaggered a bit, as his fast gesticulation caused his mind to swirl again and his body to sway on his feet. "What in the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Potter, who clearly appeared to be calm and composed, was obviously not suffering as he was. He was not looking at Draco and was staring ahead at what was in front of him, which Draco was still presently oblivious of because of the tenacious urge to punch Potter on the nose right this second. He had many incentives for doing so, and Apparating him without so much as a warning – hell, Apparating him _without_ his damned consent – simply added to the already growing mountain of reasons why he should, in fact, physically maul Harry Potter and leave him for dead.

But before Draco could do anything relevant to his so-called Mountain of Hate, a sudden familiar voice interrupted his heated thoughts of accosting his enemy. Draco froze.

"Well, Mister Malfoy, Mister Potter," said a husky, aged voice that he could never forget. "I've been expecting you."

His murderous thoughts instantly fleeting away, his head snapped towards the voice. Draco found himself staring at Albus Dumbledore at his desk, with Fawkes preening his feathers in his golden cage, surrounded by many books and eccentric gleaming curios that did absolutely nothing but possibly just sit there. After looking around at the place he'd certainly memorized by now – from the names and authors of the idyllic books to the appearances of all his widgets – he realized that they were standing right in the middle of their former headmaster's circular office.

Draco was giving both Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore very perturbed looks. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Did you do this?" he asked Harry, giving him a threatening glower.

"It was I who did this, Mister Malfoy, now, if you please," Dumbledore spoke again. His voice was neither typically jolly nor grave, but was somehow right in between: neutral. Two chairs before his table slid out as the elderly man looked at them expectedly, his blue eyes uncharacteristically opaque behind his round spectacles.

With Draco and Harry both sending each other spiteful looks, they begrudgingly took their seats, tensely sitting down with their backs rigid against the velvet cushion.

"I am glad both of you could make it," Dumbledore spoke. "And that both of you have all of your body parts intact. But, just to be certain: look at all your fingers. All ten are there, yes? What about your feet? Ears? Eyebrows? Well, that's a relief. There's seldom a time when I summon people that nothing's missing. It isn't as horrible as splinching, of course, just the occasional finger or two, or a button, or a sock. But, onwards to the more significant things: Mister Potter," he said, turning his gaze to Harry, "I did send Mister Malfoy to your flat in Muggle London. There's a very important reason why, you see, and it was urgent – utmost urgent – that we speak to you directly. Owling was not an option, and the Floo network is always very fickle and easy to tap into. You understand the dangers.

"However, it only occurred to me after Mister Malfoy had left that some… difficulties would arise upon your meeting. The drop-in was quite unexpected, of course, and we do apologize" – Draco let out a loud snort at this, crossing his arms across his chest – "but it was a necessary risk we knew we had to take. New dangers have arisen, Mister Potter. We need you involved as quickly as possible."

"But why Malfoy?" interjected Harry, obviously very malcontent with their decision, a sharp edge to his voice. "You could have had one of the Order come to fetch me, or Ron, or Remus—"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid, Mister Potter, that Mister Malfoy was the most accessible."

Then they lapsed into a jagged silence. Harry Potter was glaring down at the table as if he could transfigure it into a sharp wooden stake to plunge through Draco's heart with only his hateful glare, while Draco had his eyes angrily narrowed at somewhere behind Dumbledore's chair, cursing his onerous fate. The Hogwarts headmaster, however, was only keenly observing the both of them. It astounded him how much they had matured in their relationship, which was: none at all. He could still feel the dense rivalry between them. And, uncannily, he even got the sense as if it had been strengthened even more. Had their meeting sparked up a new sore spot?

"And how do you know you can trust him?" Harry finally asked, his jaw square and tight, his voice unwavering and rigid like a tight rope. "His father was—"

"Oh, come off it, Potter," Draco spat.

"_How_ can he be _trusted_?" Harry said louder, almost shouting, his sea glass-colored eyes vindictive. He was grasping the arms of the chair. "After all his father's done, and what about his affiliation with the Death Eaters—"

"Might I point out that Lucius Malfoy and Draco Malfoy are two different people," Dumbledore firmly interrupted him, "and that within two people there are easily the most diverse passions. I assure you, Mister Potter, that your concerns are not to be held against you, but they are, if I might say, only accusations with no truth. Yes, Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. And, yes, the Malfoy family is widely renowned for their associations with Voldemort. Their past is one of the darkest, indeed, but keep in mind that one's family history and relations are not to be used as a stepladder for suspicion. Mister Malfoy," he made sure to annunciate, "is on your side. He's on our side. He and his mother, along with Severus, have been handling this situation ever since the beginning of his seventh year at Hogwarts."

"But how do you know?" fired Harry, who was feeling outrageous animosity towards Dumbledore now, as well. He hated it that they hadn't told him about this. He hated it that they hadn't even asked him. "How do you know he isn't just trading secrets back and forth? How do you know he won't get what he came for and ambush us himself?"

"Because I'm not an idiot, am I?" Draco retaliated, yelling at him with all of the bubbling rage he felt inside him. An incongruent flash of Granger standing at his door blinked inside his mind, causing his very blood to boil. "So I suggest you just shut your bloody mouth because if you look around, Potter, _you're_ the only one who's having a problem with this—"

"Yes, I _do_ have a problem with it!" Harry said, rivaling his rising volume, turning his furious face towards Draco. "Do you know _why_? It's because _I'm_ the one who's going to be going off into that battle – _I'm_ the one who's going to have to pick up the pieces if you betray us!"

"Is all you think of yourself?" hissed Draco. "Because that doesn't seem very heroic to me."

"_You're_ one to talk, _Death Eater!"_

"_Harry Potter!"_ Dumbledore boomed, causing both Draco and Harry to clamp their mouths shut and slightly flinch. They were still glaring at each other as if they could shoot lasers from their eyes, but each had taken to biting back their influx of rampaging words for the sake of the old man sitting before them. "Must I remind you that _all _of us will be suffering the consequences of such a thing if it did happen? You will _not_ be the only one who will be affected, I guarantee you that. You are upset over the decision of letting Mister Malfoy into our operation, but it was _he _and _his _mother who proposed the plan that will most likely get us one step closer to defeating Voldemort, and so it was only apt to do so. You must learn how to cast your qualms aside and coerce yourself to trust. They are a part of our side, Mister Potter, whether you like it or not. They will be helping you.

"So I insist that you overcome your ill feelings towards each other," he said, glancing at Draco, "not only for your own sakes, but for the entire wizarding world. Keep in mind that this is for the greater good. Unneeded conflicts, especially at this crucial time, would be most inconvenient. And you asked how I could trust him? Why, Mister Potter, he gave me his word," he said.

"His _word_?" Harry scoffed, looking incredulous at his former headmaster. He felt as if he was sitting with two stupidest people in the world. "What good is his _word_ if he hasn't got a _drip_ of morality to keep it by?"

"There are more important things to keep words by," growled Draco, his pale fists clenching beside him. "_Not_ just morality, you git. There's life and death involved here, if you didn't care to notice. There's a _war_ coming and all you care about are the measurements of my moralities, and I don't even know whether to hex you for your self-involvement or laugh at you because you're so pathetic."

"I wouldn't dare talk about _my_ self-involvement if I were you, Malfoy," said Harry darkly.

"Mister Malfoy is right," nodded Dumbledore, cutting in before it could get anywhere else. "Life and death." He looked closely at the both of them through his glasses, the light bouncing off of his long, silvery beard. "While there are some people who give their words freely without serious thought and no intention of actually keeping them… remember that there are still some people in the world that actually care about the promises they give. Remember that. It'll save your lives one of these days."

Neither of them said anything. They continued to snub each other, though there was a sort of melting air about them. Like a silent agreement, except more vague and ambiguous. Actually, just more like a promise to shut up about it now and then shout it all out later, when they weren't in the presence of Dumbledore, who could be quite scary when he wanted to be. For, after all, Albus Dumbledore had always been a nice, sort of strange, yet affable man. It was his temper, however, not his kindness, that kept most people in line.

"I want to see his arm," Harry Potter suddenly said, shattering the silence. Draco rolled his eyes while Dumbledore's face slightly gave way to relief. So, Harry Potter was letting a beacon of light shine through. Big hoo-ha. Draco _still_ wanted to punch him in the face until he'd crushed his stupid nose. It was a _stupid_ suggestion: why did he want to see his arm? Was he serious? After all that Dumbledore had said about trust and all that poetic nonsense?

"I need to see his arm before I agree to anything," he said firmly, giving a terse look to both Dumbledore and Draco.

Draco, in reply, grimaced in spite and defiance. "No," he said shortly.

"Just show it to me," snapped Harry. "If you aren't a Death Eater, then what have you got to hide – unless you _are_ one," he snarled, his eyes dimming.

"For the _last_ time, you benighted halfwit, I'm _not_ a Death Eater and I _haven't_ got anything to hide—"

"Then prove it."

"No."

"Then you _do_ have something to hide."

"Maybe I just don't want to expose my flesh to you, you sodding – who in the bleeding hell do you think you are, anyway? Demanding that you see my arm like you're some sort of—"

"Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore said firmly, a tad weary with their perpetual arguing. "Show him your arm."

Draco scowled equivalently at the other two men in the room. He then realized that he was outnumbered, which was bollocks, because yet again he was getting pried off by a mad old man and a Hero boy with a facial disfigurement that ground his nerves like there was no living tomorrow. He didn't understand the injustice that was set before him now. If he simply petrified them now, could he escape? No, that wasn't a good idea. His mother would kill him. Not to mention that whole trust issue – which, quite honestly, had been absolute rubbish to begin with in the first place – would go straight out the window, and they'd never get anything accomplished. While the Dark Lord was conquering the whole of Great Britain and drawing up the blueprints for his next plan to dominate the entire world, they would still be playing their spitting game and arguing about who was a Death Eater and who was not. It was like a vicious cycle. Yeah, leave it to Potter to start all that up.

Draco begrudgingly began to roll up his left sleeve, mumbling curses to himself with a sneer scrawled across his face, pulling up the dark fabric as it glided softly against his skin. Inch by inch, his milky skin was revealed. Once it had exposed his entire forearm and more, there was an eerie, intrepid quiet that greeted him. Harry Potter was looking hard at his arm, as if he could make something appear there if he concentrated or squinted hard enough, yet as seconds ticked by, nothing did. His arm was still as it had been before: pale and unblemished. There wasn't even a single bruise, not even a sliver of a scar imprinted on there, let alone a Dark Mark.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Draco began to roll his sleeve back down, not daring to look up at Potter for fear of giving him another idea to humiliate him by. Perhaps Potter would suddenly think up that the Dark Lord had probably changed the area the Dark Mark was to be tattooed on to a more discreet area on the human body and make Draco pull down his trousers, as well.

Sick bastard.

"Now that that is all cleared out of the way, I hope you two can finally attempt to actually _trust_ each other this year," he said, and Draco had to hold back his snort (which proved to be very difficult, almost choked in the process). "I have a feeling you're going to need it. Now, what I wanted to talk to you about, Mister Potter," said Dumbledore gravely, his tone lowering, "is of something of great importance. But I must ask you this, first: how are your dueling skills?"

ooooo

When Harry Potter arrived, he appeared quite literally out of nowhere as with a distinct _Pop!_ he suddenly materialized in their living area, right in front of Hermione, who had screamed in all of her shock and tumbled painfully off her chair onto the floor, landing very uncomfortably on her bum. Looking up at him with wide eyes, yet sighing with relief, she scrambled back up with somewhat shaky knees, standing before him with a slightly quivering frame.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, breathing rather haphazardly. She tried to calm herself down, but count up all of the hours she'd wasted fretting madly about his whereabouts and what he'd done to Malfoy or what Malfoy had done to him, not to mention if he was in trouble or if he was ever coming back – it was impossible, really. Because it was just an inextricably perverse jumble of mess that she felt sloshing around in her head, bestowing her the terrible disability of not being able to think straight. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and her nails had been reduced to ugly chips on her fingers because she had taken to biting them in her anxieties.

"Thank goodness you're back!" she said, while he was still looking a little bemusedly at her. "Now, where on _earth_ have you _been_?" she demanded, gaining that stern tone she was known for. Her hair, eluding from her ponytail, was now frizzy and starting to look a lot like how it had been when they had been eleven. Her eyes were wide and worried but accusing. Only Hermione could muster such a talent. "Where did you go? What about Malfoy? What did he do to you? Did you do anything to him? You've been gone for _five_ hours! What could you have _possibly_ done for _five_ hours? You didn't even tell me where you went!"

She was nearly hysterical, but Harry, though he'd always been the best one to cope with a frenzied Hermione (Ron actually thought he deserved an award for it, and Ron had always been the sort to ditch them when she'd lapsed into one of her shrill tendencies, so Harry couldn't object to it), was feeling quite worn out to compromise with her today. His head was pounding and her questions weren't helping at all.

"Well, I told you to read the owl," said Harry, sitting down on the chair. He looked exhausted. There was an obvious weight underneath his eyes and his face was grim. Even his voice was burdened down with fatigue.

"Well, I did," she replied sharply. "About twenty-five sodding times!"

"Then that question shouldn't be hard to answer," he told her, his brow twitching in annoyance. Needless to say, he was running on a short fuse. He wasn't one to normally get fed up with Hermione's Mother Hen nature so easily, or her nosiness, but right now she was irritating him. Perhaps because every time he saw her, he saw Malfoy. He kept expecting to hear a loud banging on the door again and for Draco Malfoy to come charging in here for the second time today, maybe to come and whisk her away or challenge him to a duel. Why he kept imagining such things, he didn't know. He didn't have a clue. Somehow, just somehow, he saw Malfoy and he saw Hermione. And he hated Malfoy. And now he couldn't help but hate Hermione a little, too.

He knew that it was unfair; Hermione had nothing to do with Malfoy. Not anymore, at least, and he should respect that. After all, he shouldn't be angry with Hermione as well. This wasn't her fault. None of it was her fault. Quite obviously, Malfoy hadn't been expecting to see her there, so he hadn't been lying when he'd told him that he wasn't there for her. It wasn't her fault that Malfoy had gotten involved. It wasn't her fault that the last thing that Harry Potter ever wanted in his lifetime was to work side-by-side with one of the foulest souls (if he could even be considered a soul) on the face of the earth. So what if Draco Malfoy and his frigid mother, along with snake-like Severus Snape, had come up with the "ingenious" plan to destroy the Dark Lord? When had it become any of their business? When had they started _caring_?

But then a question was unearthed from the turbulent feelings Harry felt weighed down like an anchor inside his chest.

Was it Hermione? Had Malfoy started caring because of Hermione?

"We went to Dumbledore," said Harry tersely. "He summoned us. End of story."

"_End of story?"_ she repeated, stunned. "Tell me you're joking!"

"I'm not," said Harry seriously. His face was grave now. "Now, if you excuse me, I'm tired and I'm going to go have a little nap—"

"Wait! Hold on a minute!" Hermione said. "What _happened_?" she asked him earnestly as he began to get up from his chair. Her hands were clammy. Her throat was rough and dry and her tongue felt almost like sandpaper. "With you and-and Malfoy and Dumbledore? Why were you summoned? What did they want? What did _Malfoy_ want?" She spit his name as if she had spit acid.

His face tightened, and almost instantly he looked scornful. His green eyes were hateful. "Don't worry about it," he frigidly told her. "It doesn't concern you."

And before Hermione could get another word in, he had turned around and stormed out of the living room. She stared after him even when he was gone, only wincing as she heard the slam of his door, its indiscernible vibrations causing even the paintings they had on their walls to tremble.

ooooo

Hermione couldn't sleep. It just wasn't possible. She supposed her ability to fall intently unconscious had been stolen away with Harry just as he had dramatically stormed away from her. And so she stayed in their snug living room, in her chair with a book in her hands – a book of which she hadn't turned a page in a rough estimation of two hours. And, by Merlin, take assurance that that hadn't been the case before. It was just that her mind was buzzing with thoughts about insufferable Draco Malfoy and his unexpected drop-in, and Dumbledore, and why Harry had been summoned, and what it could have concerned that they'd needed to whisk him away, just like that. She couldn't figure it out. She was even more disconcerted with the fact that Harry refused to tell her. Harry could tell her anything. He knew that.

Her mind whirled when she recalled that look he had given her right before he'd stormed away into his room. She'd never seen him look at her like that before. Almost as if… almost as if he hated her. But why? Why did he hate her? What had she done? Was it because she'd burnt the chicken and almost burned down the flat? Was it because he'd _told_ her not to cook and she still did, anyway? Or was it something else? Was it really about her? Or was it about… Malfoy?

Just then, knowing that she couldn't take it anymore, she closed her book, setting it on the coffee table. She got up quietly, flipping off the lights, and walked towards Harry's room. She neared his door, almost menacing in her view from the placement of the shadows… but she kept going. Until she was right in front of it and there was nowhere else to step. She balled her hand and positioned it to knock, and she did. Once. Twice. Very softly. If he was asleep, then it wouldn't wake him. But if he wasn't, then she knew he'd hear it.

Then, strangely, the door gave way. Hermione looked at it for a while, before sighing, reluctant, and pressing her palm against it, silently pushing it backwards. His room was dark, but somehow she knew that he wasn't asleep. She knew. Perhaps because she knew that after what had happened today, she knew that neither one of them could ever really sleep.

She stepped in, feeling the coolness of his room and her eyes swimming in absolute darkness before firmly closing the door behind her.

She walked slowly, though not cautiously, for she knew how his room was. She didn't need to be careful. She easily found his bed and as she squinted, her eyes getting adjusted to the lack of light, she could make out his form. He was sitting up, his back against the headboard. She could feel his eyes on her.

"Sit down," she heard him say.

She sat down, feeling his rumpled sheets beneath her. He didn't sound angry with her, or as if he hated her. She was relieved.

"Harry… what happened?" she found herself asking, very softly that if there had been any louder noise it would have easily swallowed up her words. "I mean, Malfoy, just coming over here—"

"Dumbledore sent him," he replied. His tone was serious. "He sent him to talk to me."

"About what?" Hermione asked, her brows drawing down in confusion. "Why Malfoy? I mean, he…"

"That's what I asked," he said, and Hermione felt as he reached over to his lamp and pulled the string, hearing a series of quiet clicking noises before there was a sudden glow of light at his bedside. She silently observed Harry and felt a root of worry trace down her chest. He looked completely exhausted. He even almost looked vulnerable, noticing the absence of his glasses on his face. But somehow, catching him without his trademark round spectacles was a strange experience for her. Maybe it was just because his face was easier to see.

"Exactly what I asked. Dumbledore said that he was the most accessible. It's rubbish, if you ask me," he snorted bitterly. "Sometimes I really don't like that man. Always seems as if he's keeping something from me – and could you honestly blame me? He _was_ keeping something from me. Malfoy."

"What do you mean?" inquired Hermione.

"It doesn't matter," he said, looking at her intensely. "Malfoy's just Malfoy. Maybe Dumbledore believes in instant redemption, but I don't. And I'm going to give them hell for it." He was smiling scornfully. Then he sighed, looking up, and Hermione, saddened, looked down. "I don't understand it anymore than you do," he said to her. "It wouldn't do either of us any better for you to ask anymore questions. I'm biased. You know I am. I'm angry with the both of them, and what scares me is that I can't even tell whom I'm angrier with. Dumbledore or Malfoy. Hell, maybe I hate both of them equally."

"Harry, don't say that," said Hermione. "Dumbledore's only—"

"Looking out for me?" Harry scoffed, finishing her sentence in a way she didn't like. She flinched. "Hermione, you don't know how much I've told myself that over the years. How many times I've tried to convince myself that that was true. He's only looking out for me. But what good does that do, really? Can you tell me? You seem to know everything, don't you, Hermione?"

His tone was spiteful now, malicious, and Hermione felt sick inside. She even felt a little angry, and she didn't even comprehend why that was. Perhaps because he was treating her as if this was partly her fault and using her words against her even though they were only of pure intention. Or maybe because Hermione didn't want to be angry with him because she knew where he was coming from, but it was still as if she couldn't help it. Harry had a right to be angry. She silently told herself that. She should just let him talk. He was upset. After all, who wouldn't be? Draco Malfoy's appearances had always seemed to conjure up trouble wherever he went.

Of course, that wasn't surprising. Draco Malfoy was the _epitome_ of trouble. But that didn't help her, either, recognizing that fact. She was confused. She was befuddled by what he had said, and for once, she just wanted to hear what had happened without any input of his feelings. It didn't fit just yet. He hadn't told her everything. Harry wasn't usually the querulous type, and so that's how she took the hint that it must have been very troubling. But what had _happened_?

She looked away, clasping her hands together on her lap. "I'm only saying that hating Dumbledore and Malfoy will cease to get you anywhere," she said tersely, glancing back at him. "It won't help. It never does."

Harry's voice was hard and rigid. "You're on their side, then?"

"No!" said Hermione, her voice so loud that it surprised even her. A subtle ringing began to reverberate inside her ears as she momentarily squeezed her fingers into her clammy palms. She was steadily looking at him now, and she could make out his fierce, accusing expression. She felt her chest harden. "No, of _course_ I'm not on their side! But are there _really_ sides, Harry? You and Dumbledore – you're on the same side! You're _fighting_ for the same thing! Why is it now that there are two sides? Just because _Malfoy_ comes toddling along—"

"Why don't you tell me, Hermione?" Harry retaliated frostily. "Tell me, honestly: do _you_ trust Malfoy?"

There was silence. Hermione couldn't tell whether she was shocked by Harry's question or she just needed a moment before she could answer. Her jaw felt locked tight against her skull, glaring at him through the dimness of his room. No, of course I don't trust Malfoy, she wanted to scream at him. How could you even ask such a question, Harry? She had no reason to trust him at all. No reason to even look at him. She'd thought that that had been very obvious from the start. But Hermione defending Dumbledore – did it seem to Harry that she was defending Malfoy as well? Was that it?

"No," she said firmly, her voice trembling. "No. I don't."

Harry stared at her for a moment, before sighing. "Good," he told her. "Good."

They lapsed into an awkward silence; the silence that Hermione perfectly well knew usually came after an emotionally driven confrontation. A wordless moment to take in just what had happened and figure out just what they were going to do next. Hermione was looking back down at her feet again, breathing hard for a reason she couldn't exactly make out, and she could see Harry from the corner of her eye just staring at her. Due to the focus of her peripheral vision on the flannel pattern of her pajamas, she couldn't precisely see the look he was giving her. But there was a niggling twinge deep inside her that didn't really care. How was it that she'd been dragged into a conversation questioning her loyalties? By _Harry_! He out of anyone in the world should have known better!

Hermione silently sighed. On some days, she even got the gist that he knew it better than she did.

"Maybe I'm just tired," Harry said. His voice sounded every bit as weary as he'd implied it. "Tension's running high, and I've just spent five hours sitting in an office with _Malfoy_…" He emphasized Malfoy's name with disdain. "Quite clearly, I'm not in the best mood."

"Yes, quite clearly," Hermione suddenly snapped. Harry was not startled and instead only avoided her gaze by gazing at his windowpane. "You aren't the only one shocked, you know," she fumed. "It wasn't as if I'd _expected_ him to come 'round, as if we were going to catch up and have a spot of tea, so I don't appreciate it that you're trying to drag me into this as some sort of-of _antagonist_!" she shouted, throwing her hands up and standing. "Why'd you even have to _ask_ me, Harry?" she asked him, undeniably a tad hurt. "You _know_ I don't like him every bit as much as you do! How could I even trust him, after—"

"After what?" Harry cut in, his voice like a dagger through the stale air. "Hermione, after what?"

Hermione closed her mouth, shutting her eyes for a second. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing. Just tell me what happened in Dumbledore's office."

Finally, Harry answered. "It turns out… there's been a change of plans."

Her eyes shot open. "A change of plans?" Hermione questioned skeptically.

"Yeah. Malfoy, and Snape, and Malfoy's mum… They've come up with some sort of plan to help me." He hesitated. "To defeat the Dark Lord."

Hermione suddenly felt all too nauseous. She subtly clutched her stomach, staring out at the lusterless light in his room. A cold draft escaped through the crack in Harry's window – the same crack in the window that she'd been pestering him about ever since she'd found it. "Oh." It was all she could say. Couldn't ask why, couldn't demand a plausible reason that would shift it all back into something that actually made sense. Because somehow, she reckoned she'd seen this coming once or twice. That their lives would take a perverse twist and they'd end up somewhere awkward and strange. But she'd never really known how truly _perverse_ it could get. She'd never hoped that she'd end up fighting with Draco Malfoy on the same side. Not since a whole year ago.

No, not after what he'd done to her.

Because while it was not so hard to believe, it was just that she felt a rotating spiral of bubbling anger toiling right underneath her skin. She closed her eyes tight and dug her fingers into her stomach, ignoring the pinches of pain she felt on her abdomen, and tried to subdue the traces of the oncoming migraine she felt hotly pounding in the back of her head. She was squinting her eyes so tight she could almost feel tiny tears forcing out of them. And there was a sweltering scream that she couldn't deny, bottled up inside her bottled throat and she knew she had to contain herself soon, these rush of beastly emotions, before she lost her mind.

The last thing she wanted to do was make Harry think that she ought to be institutionalized.

She opened her eyes, letting her hands fall beside her. She stared dismally in front of her, at Harry's desk. She found Hedwig in her cage staring back at Hermione with those big doleful orbs of hers and she hooted, as if asking her if she was all right.

"Hermione…" Harry's voice was quiet and no longer so full of bitterness and resentment, but she could tell that what was coming, a surefire although diffident influx of words, had been coming for a long, long time. And that their circumstances now had only propelled the need for an answer; her year of avoiding the subject had been tossed away to sea with urgency and a scrambling haste to piece back the loose ends of the events she'd tenaciously kept hidden. Because then, perhaps some of this would make sense. Maybe it would help explain why what had happened, happened. "What happened? Between you and Malfoy?"

He wasn't sympathetic. She could tell. Harry'd always been one of those who wouldn't go outright to rub salt against the wound, but she felt it on some days. Even when they'd first moved in here, she knew it was the question that always lingered behind those uneasy silences during shared meals. He never insisted, but he'd never asked, either. Perhaps it was because they both knew as people that it just wasn't the right time. That maybe for her to be able to tell him the whole truth, and not just cut up tidbits of it at a time, it would take time.

She hadn't even told Ron, although Harry was always stubborn about that. On days he remembered he would tell her to, but she never did, because it all ricocheted to the same reason: she needed time. Maybe because she was a coward and couldn't face the moral degradation that would happen if she'd told her friends. Maybe because she just needed to take it day by day to plan out how to say it. Or maybe Ginny was right: he'd just hurt her. A lot.

At first it was anger. An unlisted, unrestricted anger that she felt choked her days of fresh air and contented occasions. Sadness for him, sadness for her had been far out of her reach then. That was the thing about discoveries. You aren't prepared, yet for Hermione, she knew that there'd been some underlying deception just because she was so damned intuitive – and she _still_ wasn't prepared. She wasn't at all relieved to find out what she had. In fact, she had a feeling that if she had seen him from across Dervish and Banges or the sort she'd have jumped at him with her hands tightly wrapped around his neck, banging his head against the tile floor, screaming. That hate she felt then… unbridled. It was frightening.

She never did figure out why he did what he did. There were times when she spent hours trying to come up with a reason – one that she could actually believe, and not just halfheartedly – and then there were times when she just got so sodding tired of it all that she pondered about using one of those memory spells to just block out those months of her life. But then she'd figured that that wouldn't be a wise move. Because she couldn't forget – and she _shouldn't_, because she'd gained that right. Not the right to hurt. But the right to be angry. Because it was justified, and to erase that would be to erase the fact that he'd wronged her. And no one should erase that. Not ever.

She only spoke four words, perfectly crafted. Didn't give too much away, but just said what needed to be said. Maybe Harry would take it as something light for people did things like that all the time, but he'd seen the toll it'd taken on her. He'd been there. And she didn't want to go through the grotesque specifics of it tonight, because all of a sudden, she felt tired. Immensely tired. She'd felt so much in these past twenty-four hours that she couldn't help but feel emotionally tired. She reckoned that was how Harry felt, too. Emotionally exhausted.

"He lied to me," she merely said. The shade of her intonation was subjective, and she'd meant it to come out that way. Saying little was always a tricky thing. People could take it for more than it was; people could take it for a lot less than it was. So it was all on perception and the cerebral works of matching things up. At least, until the whole truth managed to trickle out later on.

And then she sighed silently, turning to look at him. She smiled sadly.

He was looking at her with an indecipherable expression. The light had dimmed and it made his features seem sketchy. He didn't seem confused, though. But at the same time, it didn't appear as if he understood either.

But that was fine, because Hermione had been in the same spot Harry had been, as well. She could clearly recall asking herself: which lie? Because he'd told her numerous lies about many things. Sometimes she tried to remember them and wasn't certain if that was really how it went; if she'd just taken to romanticizing them to make it a little less painful. But that was foolish. Because romanticizing in itself, subconsciously or not, _was_ pain.

However, she knew exactly which lie it was. And as she quietly left Harry's room without even a meek "Good night," she found herself crossing towards her room with a vivid remembrance of it. The last lie she had ever let him tell her.

So she wasn't confused when Dumbledore had let him join their side. Wasn't confused when Harry wasn't able to successfully reject his efforts.

Because he wasn't a Death Eater.

Because she knew that that day she'd cried over the mark on his arm, the mark of a bad man. The willing mark of a permanent evil. And then realized, months later, in a screaming revelation, that it was fake.

oooo

It was Harry who entered Hermione's room this time. Usually Hermione had a set of rules written out on the table for him to read when it came to these things because they weren't children anymore and couldn't just go galloping into each other's rooms as often as they wanted to. They were adults now. Which is why they each had installed locks for their rooms for extra security be it the case that they'd taken somebody home from the night before (fortunately, an occasion that hadn't happened yet) or they were dressing. The locks were rarely used, only because they knew the nature of each other and there were fair warnings for these things.

She wasn't aware of the significance of morning until she'd felt somebody nudging her awake. She hadn't wanted to respond to the obvious pestering because her body felt like a block of lead, wrapped inside her covers as she was, and thought she'd made it quite clear to Harry in the beginning that he would never possess the authority of waking her up in the morning.

So she shut her eyes tight, wanting him to go away before she literally bit off his arm for bothering her.

"Piss off, Harry!" she growled. Hermione was not one to use such crude language on a normal basis, but while she was regularly a morning person, she hadn't slept a wink at all last night. She only accounted two hours of sleep so far and she wasn't intent on letting it stop there. "I took the day off!"

"Well, I know that, Hermione," the voice above her said. Even half-asleep she could recognize whom it was within an instant – perhaps because she knew he was the only brave-foot around here that was courageous enough (stupid, more like) to wake her up when it was crystal clear that she didn't want to _be_ woken up. "But you've got to get up anyway. Come on, up." She felt a tugging on her sheets. "We're meeting Dumbledore."

"I don't care." Hermione usually said things like that when she wasn't wholly conscious because at the moment, she really didn't care. "Leave me alone, you big bully."

"Hermione, _get up_. You're going to make us late. Do you want to find out what happened last night or what? We've got to go to Hogwarts today. So get up now or I'm bloody leaving you."

Hermione's eyes slowly opened. The word "Hogwarts" chimed in her head like a nursery rhyme. "What? Hogwarts?"

"Yes, Hogwarts," said Harry. "_Now_ will you get up? We've got to get there before breakfast ends or we'll attract attention—"

But before he could finish his sentence, Hermione was already out of bed, pushing him out of the room while scolding him at the same time about the symbolism of going into somebody's room uninvited like that. "You're so _lucky_ I don't sleep stark naked!" she lectured him. "Or else you would _never_ hear the end of this, do you hear me, Harry Potter? And under _no_ circumstances, apocalyptic or otherwise, are you _ever_ allowed to come in here and wake me up or else!"

And then she'd closed the door behind his back as she shoved him out, muffling her yells.

oooo

Hermione'd only had the luxury of one cup of tea until Harry announced that they had to get going or they were going to be monstrously late. Normally Hermione did not object to promptness as she was a punctual girl herself, but she was still feeling a little drowsy so she'd grumbled a bit. And then they got into an argument about Apparating, which Hermione had to admit was partly her fault – but, then again, for an argument to happen it had to have more than one participant. So the blame was not completely on her _alone_.

But, needless to say, when they did individually Apparate to the desolate ruin of Hogwarts' appearance in the Muggle world, they were still quite sore with each other. Hermione looked around with wary eyes to see if anyone was watching them. No one was.

She heard a noise from beside her and was surprised to see Harry sifting through the planks of rotting wood. Hermione made a face as she spotted a few termites crawling in the smelly pile. There was a rank odor coming from around here that made a shiver tingle through her spine. Needless to say, it had been quite moist around London for the past week because of the showers, and it had soaked most of the questionable materials piled all around her.

"Here it is," said Harry, getting his hand out of the grubby pile. Hermione watched as he flicked off a worm on his finger and placed a piece of tile with a peeling number four on it on his other hand. He looked towards her expectedly, and she dug into her trouser pocket and handed him her handkerchief. As he wiped his hand clean, dirtying up her hanky, he explained what was to happen next.

"This is the portkey," he told her. "Dumbledore told me last night that he'd set one out for us here. At exactly ten o'clock we're to be transported to the front of his office… Just in time for the students to all be in the Great Hall by now." Instead of handing Hermione back her hanky, he shoved it down his pocket (probably to wash it himself later on – he'd always been gentlemanly that way) and looked her way. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Uh," said Hermione, raising her wrist to look at her watch. "Two minutes 'til ten."

"Good. We'll wait, then."

The light of going back to Hogwarts had somehow lessened their earlier negative feelings towards each other, and Hermione could clearly sense it. She fidgeted in her spot, feeling foolish for starting that stupid argument with him in the morning (proving she could be something of a nag without proper caffeine). They waited silently as she looked at him and then looked back at her own attire: jeans and a jumper. She subconsciously wondered if she'd feel out of place going back to Hogwarts after an entire year. She wondered if she'd be so overcome with the rush of nostalgia that she'd start crying. She hoped not. Crying seemed too much of a dramatic thing to do, especially if they were only going to meet Dumbledore in his office.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" he said, absentmindedly, looking at the portkey in his hand.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Last night, why didn't you tell me that we had to go here in the morning instead of waking me up?" she asked, with one brow raised.

Then he looked up at her, as if startled. "Er – I suppose it slipped my mind."

Hermione sighed, giving him a look. "You shouldn't let these things slip your mind, you know. If you haven't noticed, I'm not the most affable person when I'm half-asleep. I could have done something like-like punched you, or something else equally aggressive." She looked away. "Or I could have been stark naked," she mumbled. "Then you'd have been beheaded by now, for sure."

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Hermione, don't start with that nonsense. Both of us know you're not the sort to go sleeping without clothes. You worry too much about germs and bacteria and rolling around in your own sweat. Don't you remember? You even made me watch that documentary about it on the telly."

"It was to discourage you," she snapped. "We wouldn't want—"

"Hermione," Harry said exasperatedly, "the portkey's going to go any second now. So stop talking and get over here or else you'll get left behind. And, don't worry about it, I forgive you."

Hermione, who'd just walked over to where he was and placed her hand on the tile, looked up at him with a puzzled expression. "Forgive me? For what?"

"Why, for picking a nonsensical fight with me, of course."

She gave him an incredulous look. "_What_? I'll have you know, it takes two to—"

And then, like a vacuum, they were sucked into the portkey.

oooo

When they arrived at Hogwarts, Hermione had already forgotten the end of that sentence. She hadn't encountered a portkey in such a long time and, hence, stumbled clumsily just as soon as she'd felt the tile floor slap against the soles of her trainers like a gravitational retribution against her. Luckily, Harry had grabbed her arm just in time and prevented her from falling over. Taking a deep sigh, she frowned at her weak knees. She hated bloody portkeys.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked as he let go of her, and Hermione nodded, brushing herself off to distract her from glancing at the concerned look he was giving her. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she couldn't handle any of this.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Thanks."

"Great." Harry looked around. "Well, I think we're in the wrong place, which Dumbledore said might happen, but all we need to do is walk to his office."

And so they did. Hermione found herself looking around the corridor, familiar because she'd walked so many like it precisely one year ago, and had to suppress a slight smile coming on. She didn't know why she had to suppress it, but she'd taken a look at Harry's face and noticed that he looked as grim as death. The fun of smiling, then, had appeared to shrink to a pitiful zero. She remembered what he'd said to her last night, and she looked down.

"Harry… are you sure you want to talk to Dumbledore right now? I mean, you said last night that—"

"Doesn't matter, does it, Hermione?" he said quietly. "You have to know what's happening. Hopefully, I won't even be doing any talking at all today. And, last night… I was thinking, and… nothing's going to turn out the way we want it to. So it's better to throw away what little expectations we have and just go along with what fate throws along our way, because then we won't be caught off guard, you know?" he said, looking up at her with serious emerald eyes. "And that's the thing. You don't have to be prepared. You just can't expect things, so nothing will shock you. And you won't go thinking about what could have been done and just _focus_ on the present."

"You're right," she said, smiling at him. "Exactly right. But, Harry, no one's perfect. You're not expected to be. It's perfectly all right if you don't like him right now. We're entitled to our own emotions, and even the war… the war can't take that away."

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

"And no matter what happens in there—"

Harry turned around and gave her a forced smile as they finally reached the gargoyle. "Look, I know it's one of your many talents, Hermione, but please don't baby me. I know what I'm doing. The purpose of this meeting is to let _you_ know what you're doing."

Hermione, quite embarrassed, though wanting to contradict him in some way, only nodded without a word. And Harry, giving one last reassuring nod to her, turned away and announced the password as the gargoyle sprung to life and leapt to the side, revealing their entrance.

oooo

"Miss Granger, glad to see you could make it," Dumbledore smiled, and Hermione Granger almost felt as if she were eleven years old all over again. She couldn't finger whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, really, but just realized that things had definitely changed and his office hadn't looked the way it had before. It felt a lot smaller, and though it still glittered with its idyllic mysteries, it'd lost a noticeable amount of luster since she'd last been in here. She could see Fawkes peering at her through his majestic cage and nothing was out of place at all, not even the quirky mobile Dumbledore had of the universe hanging from the tall ceiling… but it certainly felt a great deal different sitting here in this oversized velvet armchair now.

She knew it was partly because she wasn't eleven anymore. The naivety of her days – the rambunctious eagerness for things to pass along – had long faded and looking upon it now that single year she'd spent away from this place seemed a lot more momentous than it had been before. Maybe it was just her stance. Perhaps sitting in this same place, remembering the exact moment she'd told their headmaster she was to forgo the only graduation she would ever have for the sake of a dying family member and her slowly rotting heart, it made her feel older, in a way. Because she could reflect on those things and feel that same pinch in her conscience that she never did find very accommodating at all.

Nevertheless, she did feel a trickle of guilt burn her right there, on her forehead, as she sat facing him. If only he'd known what happened to make her leave so hastily. She wondered if he'd still be looking at her as he was now, so welcomingly, if he knew that she was a coward. Or that she'd been a fool, falling for a prick like Draco Malfoy and letting him play her like that.

Harry was quiet beside her.

"Yes," she said, a bit nervously. "I had a bit of help, though."

"Well, that's always convenient," smiled Dumbledore, and Hermione never could understand why the man seemed so happy all the time. Wasn't it tiresome? "However, the matters we've summoned you here to discuss are quite… grave."

Then, to Hermione's amazement, the old man stopped smiling.

"I'm certain you've heard some of it from Mister Potter," he said grimly.

Hermione shook her head. "Not at all."

"Well, to put it simply, Miss Granger, we've got a lead on the Dark Lord right now, thanks to Mister Malfoy and his mother, Narcissa. Of course, it isn't for certain yet, for these things are never steadfast, but we've been keeping an eye on the Death Eaters for quite a while now… and it is the most apprehensive thing. They've been suspiciously inactive for the past year, and we can't help but think –" Then, just as it was getting good, Dumbledore's white brows hiked up beneath his cap. "Oh. Mister Malfoy. How lovely of you to join us."

Hermione immediately froze in her seat, her hands clamping down on the arms of her armchair. She suddenly felt her heart bashing against her ribs as she heard him come in and felt tingles creep up her neck, causing her face to pale.

"Potter," he heard him greet Harry. "Granger."

And, in response, Hermione quite literally wanted to strangle him.

Finding that she couldn't help it, Hermione felt some all too brash words slip from her lips. "Pardon me for saying this, but is this really necessary?" she said quickly. "Malfoy being in here while we're discussing this. I mean, I don't even know why this is any of his business." Foolish thing to say, really, because Hermione knew perfectly well why it _was_ his business. She reckoned she could have looked like a first class idiot then, had her words not fled so coldly and callously. She even surprised _herself_ with the frostiness of her voice.

Almost even wanted to give herself a high-five.

Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy's brows hitched up his forehead at her remark. Proving that he was every bit as brash himself, he spoke out. "_What_?"

Stiff with her fury, Hermione's eyes narrowed as she heard his response. So this was it. Her revenge, was it? Oh – who cared? He'd lied to her. The nasty little bastard. Yesterday she might have been caught off guard, but she wasn't going to let him get away this time. If he wasn't going to leave her alone so she could receive the news in peace, then he was going to get what he deserved. She'd spent an entire year waiting for this – a fiery retribution. "You heard me, Malfoy. You aren't deaf. You can hear me just fine, can't you?"

Draco scowled, spying the top of her head from a curve in the armchair. He hated it that she was such a smart mouth. Even after all this time – if he'd just poured oil in her mouth, she would have burned for _months_.

"It's my business in _every_ way," he snapped at her with contempt. "It has been."

"Oh yeah?" Hermione said, standing up and whirling around to face him with a fierce look on her pretty face. She didn't know why she was just laying all of this out now, right in front of their former headmaster and Harry – but didn't they deserve to see how Draco Malfoy had wronged her? Maybe it would make them see that he wasn't trustworthy at all! Maybe then Dumbledore would quit with his delusions of Draco turning all good and righteous! Because he _wasn't_ good! He wasn't a good person _at all_!

He wasn't even _sane_! Who _else_ in their right mind would imprint a fake Dark Mark on their forearm to break up with their girlfriend? Honestly!

It was unfair what they were doing; forcing Harry to have to cooperate with someone who'd terrorized him for the whole of the seven years they'd spent in this place. Wasn't Dumbledore sympathetic at all? Didn't he _know_?

So that was why she reckoned she went berserk. Because she'd seen what it'd done to Harry. Because Dumbledore did not appear to understand that working with Draco Malfoy and his evil posse would be the death of them. Because if the world was truly just and fair, Malfoy would have perished along with Snape for what they'd done to her. They wouldn't have been handed a second chance. No. Not if things were fair. And if the world was fair, Hermione would have never been hurt by a malicious liar and spent a whole year trying to rid herself of those heavy feelings of unrequited heartbreak.

"Exactly how long has it been your business? A year? _Two_ years? Oh no – wait a second, it _can't_ have been two years, because right before I left you flashed me your Dark Mark! Yes, that was it, wasn't it! The _Dark Mark_! Funny how I can't remember it at times." She laughed without humor. "Because it was _really_ funny, _honestly_, Malfoy. Sometimes I laugh so hard I begin to cry."

She saw the look on his face then: rigid and furious. At first she'd thought he'd be stunned for doing what she did, such a flawed act of spontaneous rage, yet she took glorious delight in the fact that he seemed to know it was coming. She didn't care if he was angry with her. She didn't care if he'd really wanted that second chance and she'd ruined it for him. She didn't care at all.

Even if it _was_ an entire year ago, he'd hurt her. And she wanted nothing in the world but to hurt him right back, even if it was three hundred and sixty-five days overdue.

But before anyone could ask any questions and she could confirm any of them to worsen Draco's shame, she'd walked right out of Dumbledore's office. She ran down the spiral staircase and felt somewhat dizzy for she was scared of heights and never fancied running down stairs, but she could almost hear haste footsteps right behind her, and be it on the off chance that it was Draco Malfoy out to get her for humiliating him and airing their dirty laundry, she ran even faster. She considered the percentage of the possibility that she'd lose her footing and find herself tumbling down the stairs and perhaps gaining herself a nasty concussion, but for once in her life, she had nothing to lose.

And she was quite sure that concussion wasn't as bad as the thought of it was.

When she reached the bottom step, the entrance began to open, and she bit her lip, wanting it to hurry. Even with the pounding in her ears, she was rather certain those were footsteps. But maybe it was only Harry. Or maybe not.

Finally, once it had revealed enough space for her to fit through, she ran out, launching herself right out into the corridor with so much momentum that she found it difficult to stop. She then remembered that this must be the adrenaline rush athletes always talked about. There were students about now who were all staring after her with bewilderment as she shouted pardons for dodging them. Some were alarmed and stepped back and she hurriedly thanked them.

But, just then, she felt something yank her backwards. She felt her whole body jerk backward, surprised, feeling a burning iron grip on her arm as her heels skidded on the marble and she struggled to keep her balance.

And then she found herself staring up at the pale face of a furious Draco Malfoy, with his hair mussed and his stormy eyes narrowed with spite. His lips were pressed into an intense scowl.

The corridor quieted down, and she was aware of all the adolescent eyes keenly watching them now. Somehow, she felt like a student again. She even almost expected Professor McGonagall to come stomping out any minute now and give them detentions while deducting house points with the other half of her useful brain.

She felt her arm tingling and it made her even angrier. She was quite sure he'd bruised her and she wanted to sue him for manhandling her like so.

"What could you _possibly_ have to say to me?" she hissed, a glower setting itself on her face like hot coals. "I know all about it, Malfoy," she spat, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits. "And I never thought you could sink any lower. Yet, you proved me wrong. Congratulations. You are the single most disgusting, vile, and manipulative _bastard_ on the face of the earth." She heard a few people gasp. "Now, if you please, you've already ruined my day by showing up, and I have to get home. Tell Dumbledore we'll talk some other time."

She began to walk past him, but halted just inches from him when she heard him say something to her.

"Only a true fool would have believed it."

And about thirty Hogwarts students were there to witness one of the most glorious scenes in the history of the wizarding world: when Hermione Granger had wheeled around and punched him right on the nose.

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Can anybody say grrl power? grins Gosh, that was fabulous. Almost as fabulous as you will be if you review! I'd also like to say Thanks to **Lemon**, who pointed out my spelling blunders. Sorry, I can be quite ignorant about that stuff, but be assured that I've taken a note of it now! 


	3. The Year Long Grudge

If It Was You

**A/N: **Classic moment. And I'm all for grrl power, so it was fun to write! Thanks to the reviewers, who totally, undeniably blew me away. You lot are getting even more fantastic with your craft!

**The Year Long Grudge**

Needless to say, once Hermione had heard the sickening crunch of bone against cartilage and the loud gasps of everyone around her, she knew that there was no way on earth she could possibly comprehend the wrong she'd done now. She didn't think she'd ever punched anyone before, let alone a boy, but she knew that this was certainly going to be her third assault against Draco Malfoy. She'd already slapped him in third and seventh year (which had been sort of fun), and now, even out of Hogwarts, she'd proved her volatile aggressiveness towards him and just downright crushed his nose with her ink-stained, bony knuckles.

And so it wasn't her fault that once he'd flung his head back and let out a boisterous howl of agony, cupping the middle of his face with his hands, Hermione felt herself shake in fright and shock. She staggered back with wide eyes as if she'd been possessed for that one mere second by some violent, _evil_ demon, staring at her hand as if it was something alien to her.

Oh, God. And there were a few drops of blood on it.

People had gathered around them now, and there was no telling of how horrified Hermione felt then, demonstrating such bad role modelism to kids that were already too rowdy for their own good. She knew with such conscience-defying certainty that she was going to be thrown down into Bad Girl hell for what she'd done. Now all of the girls were going to go around punching boys on their noses for wronging them somehow. Well, that's what they should be doing in the first place, but did it _really_ have to be _Hermione_ who had to show them that? Now all everyone was going to remember about her was not her perfect grades and saintly example, but that day when Draco Malfoy had gone after her and she'd broken his nose with her hand.

Which – and this went without saying – was not saintly in any way at all.

But she was such a little girl! How could she have possibly bestowed so much hurt on a man almost twice her size? A man who also "claimed" to be one of the top Quidditch players out there with agility and strength and endurance! Merlin, did _everyone_ lie about themselves nowadays?

Just then, Hermione heard a few hollers of authority that sounded frighteningly like Filch, and she helplessly looked around at all of the students bunched around her, gaping at her in awe. All she wanted to say to them right that terrorizing moment was exactly this: _You were _not_ supposed to see that! _Because they really weren't. But she didn't, because she wanted to save at least a bit of her dignity as well as her troublemaking, Draco Malfoy-punching, nose-breaking arse, and so she hauled herself right out of there and bolted down the corridor as fast as she could, heading to the place she knew had never really failed her before: the library.

She sprinted her way up staircases and down corridors, ignoring the shouts of the portraits as she passed, her nerves buzzing and her thumping heart beating like a ticking bomb. She didn't slow down until she'd wrenched open the oaken doors of the library and stumbled in, haphazardly falling into one of the seats nearest to the door that she almost tipped over. She was breathing hard as she tried to catch her breath, her side aching and her kneecaps rickety from her surprising burst of motion. She shut her eyes tightly, her sweaty palms on the knees of her jeans, a pained look on her face that accounted not only for the discomfort her body was in, but the _terrible_ position she had gotten herself into now. How had things gotten so awfully awry? What had started out as her single act of Sticking-It-to-the-Man had turned into breaking Draco Malfoy's face! And as lovely as that would have been on any other occasion, not only had she done it in Hogwarts, but she'd also done it with _students watching her! _Did she _want_ to encourage adolescents' already homicidal antics?

She groaned aloud as she dug her head into her hands, feeling the pounding beneath her left collarbone.

_'I've just punched Draco Malfoy,'_ she thought to herself, _'on the nose.'_

And it took a while to get used to. Because as much as she hated herself for publicly promoting violence to children, she couldn't help but feel a little bit of happiness in herself. Yes, sick Hermione Granger was proud of herself for punching the pulp out of that pasty sod. Because – hadn't she earned that right? When he'd lied to her that day, one year ago, surely he _must_ have known there was something called karma and that she'd take her revenge on him _some_ day. So it wasn't uncalled for, wasn't necessarily unexpected, but just unexpected in the sense of timing.

Of course, he'd been asking for it. If only he'd just let her walk away without opening his vile trap, then he would have been fine. No fractured noses. No displaying peer animosity to kids. No ruining the formerly untainted reputation of Hermione Granger by doing all of the above. And now, she reckoned, all of those bystanders must have snitched about her by now and Filch should be limping his way right down to the library any moment now…

Hermione checked her watch.

Eh, in about ten minutes or so.

But, clearly, she was in a hazy state of shock. No, she hadn't been expecting to accost Draco Malfoy. Nor hurt him by embedding her fist into his face. She hadn't been planning the sort at all; it'd just been a sudden momentary lapse into volcanic anger (so _this_ was why they recommended therapy for extreme cases) that had been bubbling right underneath the deceptively sweet surface for so long. And wasn't that what Harry had been telling her about? That you should throw all of your expectations aside, because if you do, then you won't be caught off guard or disappointed and could simply focus on the _present_? But how _did_ that work, really? What would focusing on the present do if you were probably going to be seen as this big evil person who went around punching in people's faces?

No, nothing good could come of this at all. Unless she was declared some national hero, standing up for women's rights everywhere… which _was_ a plausible idea… but, no. The world was run by men. Even the wizarding world. So, no.

Fuck.

Hermione just couldn't believe she'd gotten herself into this. Not now. Not when they finally had a lead on the Dark Lord and something genuinely important was going on… Why had she let her anger get the best of her? Why couldn't she just have walked away – or, like, slapped him? And why did Draco Malfoy have such a breakable nose?

_'Take deep breaths, Hermione,'_ she told herself. _'Take deep breaths. You're going to be okay. They're going to understand. That, or you can just plead temporary insanity. Or intoxication, or something. But you're going to be _fine_.' _

Fine? What did that word even _mean_? Was she going to be as "fine" as Draco Malfoy's nose – because that wasn't so fine anymore!

"Harry's going to kill me," she whispered to herself. But then, after saying that, she felt puzzled. _Why_ was Harry going to kill her? Didn't Harry hate Malfoy, too? Shouldn't Harry be cheering her on, maybe throw her a party or something, for doing something so brilliant and _awesome_? Because, for once, she wasn't sticking up for anybody but herself. And by doing that she'd stuck up for everyone she'd been thinking of by doing what she did. So that meant that she'd stuck up for Harry, too. And Ron. And everyone else Draco Malfoy had wronged.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione jumped, startled, as she looked up. Thankfully, it was only Madam Pince smiling down at her with a bemused crinkle beside her eyes. Hermione relaxed into her wooden chair, her hand on her chest, breathing hard.

"Oh, Madam Pince," she breathed. "You scared me."

"Oh, well, I do apologize," the old woman said. Hermione, peering at her, only truly realized now how their librarian had aged. There was even that fatigue she saw in some old folks – a weariness that life had planted inside them that made them appear older than they really were. Madam Pince had even lost her sternness that she'd been most known for. . . . Now, Hermione discovered, she looked just like anyone's grandmum.

Which was strange.

"It's all right," Hermione said, sitting up.

"I just wanted to ask you for a favor," the librarian said quietly. Definitely didn't seem like the barking type she had been before, that was for sure. She cleared her throat. "You see, and I'm certain you notice, I'm aging quite quickly… Soon, I won't be able to tend to this library, and I was wondering, since you know this library as good as I do, if you would be interested in taking over for me."

Hermione blinked at her. "Me?" she asked, dumbfounded. "A librarian?"

"Why, yes. The hours are flexible and it isn't a difficult job. I'm sure you can handle it. That is, of course, if you want to take the job. If not, then I can find someone else."

"I-I don't know what to say," said Hermione, so overwhelmed by her circumstance that she was beginning to stammer. This sudden influx of possibly life-changing events was really catching her off guard and she honestly didn't know what to make of it. "But – yes, of course! I'd have to work out a schedule between my old job and this one, but I'm certain I can work something out. Thank you, Madam Pince!" she said enthusiastically, still a tad shaken up. She wiped her sweating hands on her trousers, smiling nervously.

Madam Pince smiled. "I'm sure you'll do this library justice, Miss Granger. I hold no doubt about it. I'll inform the headmaster and secure you the job. Just call any time to retrieve your schedule."

"No problem," she said, now even more in a haze than ever. "I'll be sure to ring."

Whoa. Punching Draco Malfoy and getting a job at the library (which was _only_ her most favorite place in the entire universe!) all within the period of an hour. If that wasn't lucky, then she didn't know what was.

However, that didn't mean she still didn't feel guilty for what she'd done. Granted, he deserved it – more than anyone did. And maybe she should have given him a warning, just to be fair. But what were warnings in life – really? _He_ hadn't given her a warning at all. And even if she _had_ uttered a mere warning, it wasn't as if he'd just have stepped off like a cavalier and just let her go. Draco bloody Malfoy was too stubborn and too egotistical, and thus could _never_ quell the urge to prove himself superior to others, and he would have just gone and done something even worse, she reckoned. And, who knows? She might have just done something even more terrible.

Like bashed his head against a wall, or something.

When she'd fully caught her breath and her body was no longer suffering from its tiny internal spasms from her escape, she realized the possibility that perhaps Argus Filch – resident caretaker and pain in the arse – did not bother to look for her because she was no longer a student here and there was nothing they really could do (except kick her out, which would have earned her even more shame points, but she didn't mind – that much), she got up and walked over to the shelves. She smiled to herself despite the guttural uneasiness she felt in her abdomen that she figured was just another conscience thing, as she ran her fingers through the dust-laden leather covers of the neatly stacked books.

Hermione could never forget why she'd always liked books. It had something to do with their permanence – and the look about them. It was common knowledge that with every rotation of the world everything was changing. People were dying. People were born. People were discovering. People were becoming legends. People were punching people in their faces and breaking their noses. Sometimes it came in masses and sometimes it came like the last trickles of water from a canteen. Life was unpredictable. But books weren't. Books never changed; yes, they had editions, but they were still the same. In books, when one made a prediction, it was either proved to be right or wrong, and it helped build up good instinct, in a way. Books weren't made to ruin people. Books were made to inform, maybe to inspire – nothing else.

And she remembered thinking, even when she was little, why life couldn't be that way. Summed up within pages. Never complex. Every hidden meaning could be found if someone just read it over and over. Because books, compared to how things were now, seemed a whole lot simpler than ever before. Because it was definitive and rarely had any Maybes or I Don't Knows. Unlike life.

And unlike, say, breaking Draco Malfoy's perfect, patrician nose.

Hermione glanced at the doors. She half expected it to suddenly burst open and people to come running through to seize her and take her in for questioning, but even as she replayed that scene redundantly in her head, the wooden doors remained closed. She expected to hear shouts and footsteps. All she heard was her breathing. And the doors remained still and undisturbed.

Finally, after a silent minute of watching the doors in mild paranoia, Hermione slipped out a book, walked over to the end of the aisle farthest away from the door, and sat down on the floor. She figured she needed some good literary soothing right now, and learning all about the Goblin Rebellion had always managed to make things seem a bit better somehow.

And so, shifting to get herself comfortable (though it only went to a miserable extent – the floor of the library always did appear harder than most floors), she skipped the author's foreword and headed on to _Chapter One: The Bloodshed At St. Henry's Grave_.

It was when Hermione was in the middle of the rebellion on line one fifty-two on page thirty when she'd heard something peculiar. Hermione's ears perked up, her eyes jumping from the place in her book to in front of her. Instantly, she heard the library doors creak open and footsteps coming nearer as her body shot up, scuffling, and the book dropped from her hands, making her lose her page. She watched with enlarged, wary eyes, as soon a figure appeared right in her view…

Hermione sighed, her body's tensed muscles relaxing.

It was only Harry.

"I thought you were Filch," said Hermione, bending down to get her book, attempting to calm the loud beating of her heart.

"I think you've forgotten that there's very little they can do to us now," he informed her, his face appearing to be neutral. Hermione tried to read his face. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was upset with her. "Seeing as how we've already graduated and all."

"Right," she said. "Right. I knew that. I think."

He halted just feet from her, and Hermione couldn't help but cast her eyes down from his, feeling ashamed. She didn't know why Harry had always possessed this strange power of making her feel worse than was actually necessary. And here Hermione thought that he would be overjoyed by the fact of her beating the pulp out of Draco Malfoy! Although, now that she thought about it, maybe it was just what it was: a mean, brutal, and vicious thing to do.

"Girls don't usually hit boys, you know," she heard him say, and Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit. It wasn't a happy smile, just one derived from considering the levels of irony in this situation. "And don't tell me that you didn't mean to, because you and I perfectly know, Hermione Granger, that you positively meant to." He paused, as if hesitating. "No one punches unless they mean to."

"So they told you, then?" Hermione asked meekly, squinting up at him, feeling horrible. She felt wretched now. "The students out there?"

"Ginny nearly trampled me," he said. "Said she saw the whole thing. She also said she was going to start a club straight away, the I Watched Hermione Granger Kick Arse club, or something. Told me to congratulate you for such a brilliant punch. You should've seen her. She looked like Christmas had come early."

Hermione stared at him in horror.

Ginny!

She groaned in despair. This was exactly what she feared would happen. "Oh, I feel awful, Harry, you must believe that, at least. Not about punching him. But about punching him in front of all those children – and Ginny, now, too! I can only hope she doesn't tell Mrs. Weasley! Now they must think I'm some sort of-of _savage_!"

"A hero, actually, but yeah, a savage too."

Hermione was surprised to see the faint beginnings of a boyish grin on his face – the only grin Harry Potter could have, no matter how much he aged. And then she couldn't help but laugh, even just a little. Even if it was just to distract her from the whole load of mess she'd gotten herself into now.

"How bad is it?" she said quietly, finally gathering enough courage to ask. "Did I break it?"

"I'd say so," Harry said, but no matter how seriously he attempted at toning his voice as to not reveal his true feelings about this situation, it still couldn't hide the sheer delight he took in her bout of (deserved) violence against Malfoy. "Sight's pretty nasty, that's for certain. Malfoy's not too happy about it, of course. Kept grousing on about you and your constant hostility towards him" – Hermione snorted, even though some part of doing that hurt – "and also your enthusiastic fervor for always trying to injure him." Harry was smiling now. Obviously, quite obviously, he could not disagree.

"And what about Dumbledore?" Hermione blurted. "Is he angry?"

Harry shrugged, nearing her. "Jolly old fool, as always. Seems to think it's funny, which certainly sparked the temper in the git, but I reckon he's fine. A little bruise never hurt anyone. And… surely, with the circumstances, considering what Malfoy's done to you… it's… justified."

Hermione sighed, looking away from him. For some reason, part of her wished she could go back in time and not said what she had said. For laying it all out there. Because now – and she was sure of it – she looked like the victim. The defenseless, hurt, and pitiful victim, and she'd always hated being seen that way. Especially by Harry. Especially by Dumbledore. Especially by him.

"So that's what you meant… when you said he'd lied to you," Harry said quietly, his smile slowly fading. She could tell that he'd pieced two and two together. She could tell that he was very empathetic about her past with Draco, which she – quite frankly – sort of hated, because she knew that now he would only feel more obliged to protect her from things like that. Deceit. Heartbreak. And while Hermione would have never refused such help if she'd known what she knew now, she knew that there was a very valuable lesson in all of this:

That Draco Malfoy was, is, and will always be a twat.

Yes, there was a pungent air of permanence in that.

"Yeah," she said, "that's what I meant."

His green eyes – brilliant under the sunlight sometimes, she remembered – earnestly peered at her through his glasses. She felt a stab deep in her gut as she looked at him. After eight years, she could read him like a book. Of course, human beings were a lot trickier than texts, as they were – ahem – humans, which certainly brought her some ambiguity and complexities, but she liked to think that she had a talent for it.

"He's a prick," he said, though Hermione thought he'd never meant it as much as he had then. "A nasty piece of work." And then he continued to say things that she knew Harry would not usually say in the presence of a lady, but she allowed it, because it was his opinion and an opinion should always go uncorrected. She even felt slightly better, seeing that he was not disappointed in her at all (didn't show it, at least) and that he actually respected her for doing what she did. He reassured her countless times that he'd deserved it. And that he deserved more, but for right now, breaking his nose was perfectly okay.

Harry and Hermione began to walk out of the aisle together, Hermione waving to Madam Pince as they began to exit.

"So, what did they say about me?" she asked, biting her lip self-consciously as she did so. She peered at Harry. "Come on, Potter. I can take it."

He shrugged. "They didn't say much about you, actually. All they kept raving on about was how Draco Malfoy, former Slytherin Quidditch Captain and Hogwarts bad boy, got beat up by a girl."

And not even guilt, nor the worst broken nose in the world, could help Hermione from cracking up then.

oooo

When they arrived at the infirmary (Harry had to drag her most of the way), the happiness and relief had long disappeared from her system. Instead it had been replaced with agitating feelings of resentment, shame, and embarrassment. Even though she'd passed a few third-years who'd given her a thumbs-up, she only frowned at them because as much as she liked it that they were all taking this in a good way, she couldn't help but feel a tad – just a tad – misinterpreted. She'd actually had a reason when she'd punched him. She hoped they knew that.

Having to pass through those big doors that reeked of chemicals and strong odorous potions terrified Hermione. She knew exactly what was waiting for her beyond them and she felt as if she was in one of her nightmares again. She didn't want to have to see Malfoy's face with the broken nose she'd given him (because she had a feeling she'd only smirk at him because she was evil like that) and she didn't want to have to see Dumbledore after purposely harming one of her former peers. Was that the right impression to make, really? Not only would the old man think that she was too brash and uncontrollable, he'd think that she simply was not ready to learn all about the oncoming war and just straight out shove her out of the loop – just like that.

And though Hermione was sure that Harry wouldn't allow him to be so cruel, she could never tell these days. She knew that he spent hours of his days rethinking all of this, as if sharing a flat with her was putting her in harm's way more than she ought to be, and though she always told him that those thoughts were ridiculous, she could tell that he still thought them. Sometimes, coming home from work, she even half-expected to see all of her things packed up and fitted into suitcases, sitting outside their door. Because Harry had always been too conscientious with the people he cared about, and he was determined on keeping them safe – even if it was already too late. Sometimes he just could not understand. Maybe because he never wanted to.

So, she wasn't surprised when she felt her heart drumming like the jungle beat of the Congo once she'd finally stepped in. She remembered the single beds with white pillows and sheets and white everything, still the same. The high-rise windows were unchanged. Even the smell hadn't changed. It still stung her nostrils and made her want to gag and almost reminded her of her parents' office back at the dentistry, except theirs had always been loads more pleasant than the hospital wing. She felt Harry beside her, who seemed a lot taller from the corner of her eye, but it didn't reassure her much. All she found was that her eyes were glued to the face of Draco Malfoy, who happened to be scowling, with a white bandage taped to the middle of his face.

That face with that bandage.

It was ridiculous, really.

She even thought she could make t-shirts with him on it, exactly the way he was looking right now, and she, Harry and Ron could start a club or something. The I Broke Draco Malfoy's Nose club.

Hah. What a hoot.

She moved forward, never taking her eyes off of him, trying to suppress the urge of throwing her head back and laughing so obnoxiously loud, while at the same time subconsciously feeling sorry for him. Because he really hadn't seen that fist coming, had he? And she did feel sort of sad having so much amusement in the injury of another person. An injury that _she_ had bestowed on him. Did that make it fine? She didn't know. But all she knew was: just because she did feel a little sympathy for him for experiencing her wrath _didn't_ mean she was going to get all weepy and beg for his forgiveness. Please. As _if_ she hadn't a backbone.

Her eyes fluidly moved to Dumbledore, making sure her face did not give a drip of anything away, and found that he was only smiling lightly. Because Dumbledore could smile at anything, she supposed. And that relieved her, because at least if he was thinking of cutting her off from the plan, he wasn't showing it. For if he did show it and began to spit at her about her immaturity and lack of self-control and what a disgrace she was to Hogwarts, she knew then that even with his broken nose, Draco Malfoy would have won.

And she had _not_ – especially with her almost breaking his face – set out to let him win!

"Ah, Miss Granger, lovely to see you again," Dumbledore said. "Mister Potter, wherever did you find her?"

"The library," Harry responded. "Reading."

Hearing that, Hermione couldn't help but see how stupid it was, her running to the library after her aggressive retribution – and _reading_. She could have at least lied and said she was sharpening her knives or something of the sort just to make her seem tough. But _reading_? That wasn't tough. That wasn't tough at all.

"How excellent. Did you find any good books?"

On his bed, Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes.

Hermione's eyes brightened, forgetting all about the idiocy of reading after breaking somebody's nose. "I was just reading about the Goblin Rebellion, actually. I skipped the author's foreword, though, because I know it by heart—"

"Could we _please_ focus on the matter at hand?" Draco snapped, though his voice sounded oddly off-pitch because of the bandages shoved up his nostrils. He had to breathe through his mouth. He was glaring at the other three people in the room, most especially one Hermione Granger, who only turned her nose up at him. "Granger, what the _hell_ is your problem?" he hissed. "Punching me, right out in the hall, in front of two dozen children – what are you, some sort of _barbarian_?"

"You deserved it," she retaliated, feeling her temper flare up again. "And don't you dare go on infuriating me because I won't hesitate on doing it again!"

"You stupid basketcase – you _already_ broke my nose! What else are you going to do? _Pull my hair_?" Draco continued to shout, although it was muffled, due to the things up his nose and all. "_Who_ do you think you _are_, anyhow? Girls aren't even supposed to go around punching boys!"

"I would have kept my fist right by my side where it belongs if you'd just kept _back_ your inappropriate remarks!"

"Where it _belongs_ is in your _mouth_, you presumptuous lunatic!"

"Do you think you're clever – do you? Do you?" Hermione said, and Harry had to hold her back. "I'll show you who's clever – and this time I'll be sure to knock out all of your teeth so you'll have the fortune of spending the rest of your damned life sucking your meals through a straw!"

"Oh, how _realistic_!" he fired. "Do you know what? Why don't you put that lurid imagination of yours to good use and stick your head inside an oven!"

"I'll have you know, Sylvia Plath was a respectable woman—"

"Whoa, whoa," said Harry, stepping in front of Hermione. "Shouting insults at each other is fine and all, but there's no need to go bringing in other people."

"Are you _kidding_? She was barmy – almost as barmy as you are!" Draco shouted, pointing one long finger at her.

"_She's_ not the one who got beat up by a girl!"

"Now, now," Dumbledore hushed them, rising up his hands to mediate. Both Hermione and Draco were breathing hard, glowering at each other with slit-like eyes. "That's enough. Now, it is quite clear to us that both of you have had a history with each other" – they both stiffened – "but keep in mind that what is in the past is in the past. Nothing can undo it. It's best if we just keep our attentions focused on the present so that we may be able to do something with this difficult problem you three seem to have with turning every meeting into a shouting match," he said firmly, no longer smiling, but looking rather fed up. "Must I remind you that all three of you are _graduates_ of this school? Why do you insist on acting like first years? Would anyone mind telling me?"

It then occurred to Hermione – and it shocked her, too – that Albus Dumbledore was lecturing them.

Talk about a new level of shame.

"That's correct," he said shortly, "there is _no_ honorable reason that could justify your behavior thus far. Might I say, if you are to be working together as a team to defeat the Dark Lord, you _must_ learn how to control your tempers. In history, most of the successful crowds did not even _like_ the other – but they knew how to push their feelings aside and just do what had to be done. Do you understand me? Mister Potter?" He looked towards Harry, then towards Malfoy. "Mister Malfoy? And you, Miss Granger? Do you have any objections?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, sir," she said feebly, feeling herself color.

"Good. That is very good. I do hope that we will not be encountering any more difficulties like this again."

Just then, the infirmary's doors opened and all three of their heads whipped around to see a familiar figure dressed in her trademark hunter green robes. She looked genuinely surprised to see them, her dark eyebrows almost disappearing inside the shade of her hat.

"Mister Potter," Minerva McGonagall said with obvious astonishment. "Mister Malfoy, and Miss Granger – what are you three doing here? And Mister Malfoy, what in Merlin's name happened to your nose?"

Dumbledore answered before any of them could. Not that they wanted to, seeing as how they couldn't possibly come up with a good enough answer that wouldn't have made them look like fools. "I'm afraid, Professor, that these three have quite the most explosive chemistry."

She gave them a deeply suspicious look. "Still stirring up trouble, are we? Doesn't surprise me the least bit." Then, after looking disapprovingly at each of them (and her looks still had the same effect on each of them, mind you), she steadied her gaze on the headmaster. "Albus, you are needed. You should come immediately."

"Thank you, Minerva," replied Dumbledore. "Please tell them I'll be on my way as quickly as possible."

She nodded again and quietly closed the door, disappearing behind the wooden surface. It closed with a thud.

"I'm afraid, now, that business calls," Dumbledore said, looking grimly at them. "I hope that since each of you have expressed – rather effectively, might I add – your feelings towards each other, that you may be able to push it aside and the rest of our meetings will not be so eventful. Please do work on that. Keep in mind that now we are all on the same side…" He gave a look at Draco and Hermione above his half moon glasses. "And that the past is not something to get tangled with."

Then he looked up towards the doors. "Well, then, I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Good day, Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger. Mister Potter, would you mind escorting me? I'd like to have a word with you. It'll only take a moment."

Harry nodded politely and followed his former headmaster out of the room, quickly glimpsing at Hermione as if an attempt to keep her on her toes as he closed the door behind him.

And as Hermione stood there with Draco Malfoy and his broken nose in the hospital wing, there was no telling how alone she felt then. Or how monstrously awkward. She expected him to leap at her like some tropical monkey and start tearing her hair out while shouting out all the ways she'd wronged him… but then, and this was a reason that she couldn't figure out the least bit, she began to seriously consider just how many times she'd wronged him and was hurt that it'd only been so few. If even any at all. Not once, in the months that they had been involved (pitifully, thinking of it as that, or as anything at all, still stung more than she would have liked), had she ever hurt him. Not even a little. Not intentionally, at least.

It'd always been him.

And that made her want to break his nose all over again.

She stood there, looking behind him at the empty surface of the side table, not feeling confident enough to look him in the eye. Maybe she'd go berserk again. Maybe she'd start to cry – and she really didn't want to. _Really_ didn't want to. Although she was quite certain she was way past that, crying over a malicious bloke who'd lied to her and single-handedly crushed her, she was just vastly disconcerted by the fact that she _didn't know_ what she was going to do if she did look at him and they were alone. And she didn't want to risk it. Not when they'd just been scolded by Albus Dumbledore, who rarely ever scolded, and who had basically told them to act their age.

Because he was right. They hadn't been acting their age. For a minute there, Hermione had let her younger teenage self sweep her off into the roaring current again. More than a minute, actually. More than enough.

But even as she fought hard to keep her head level to what was going on now as to not let anything slip by, be it the chance that he happened to try anything, she found herself overwhelmed with the feelings rumbling within her. They were all strongly supported by memories, memories of which had happened right in this same room and even, uncannily, on this very same bed.

She'd been hospitalized. She remembered some rubbish about her obsession with those dreadful Insomniac potions and then Snape had made her drink Draco's potion, and somehow, she'd woken up in the hospital wing. And she remembered how ugly his black eye had been. (Harry had been the one to give it to him, proving that she wasn't the only one who wasn't able to refuse the urge of driving her fist deeply into his face.) How miserable it'd looked against his fair skin that it had even hurt her to look at it. And how he'd snuck in after Madam Pomfrey had retired back to her office and held her hand.

Oh, Merlin. He'd held her hand.

And thinking that, seeing it all replay inside her head like it was some sort of cinematic film, made something coil around her throat again. Her chest started to hurt. Her jaw clamped down on itself and her fists clenched at her sides.

It actually made her livid to remember those things. How he'd fooled her. How she'd actually _believed_ he'd cared about her.

And then, rocketing back to where they were now, she even began foolishly hoping that he would apologize to her. Right now. For all of the horrible things he had done. And even if she wouldn't ever accept it, it would reassure her, and it would be a start. Maybe then she would be able to look at him without wanting to hurt him in some way. Or maybe, if this was all as twisted as it seemed, it would make her want to hurt him even more for thinking that he could just get away with it with one measly apology. Because there was _no_ way, alternate universe or not, that she could ever _begin_ to forgive him even if she wanted to. It was past apologies. Past stitching back up torn ends. Past trying to right things that had gone horribly wrong.

She wanted to ask him if he even had any clue. An _iota_ of a clue. Wanted to ask him if he ever thought – for a second – that he might have really hurt her because she might have really cared about him. If he ever thought about anyone else rather than himself at _any_ bloody moment in those months. Had she ever _mattered_? Had he meant all that he'd said in that corridor during the Talent Show – or in his room? Or had it all been some big lie? A joke that everyone else knew about except her? Because she was so tired of asking those same questions over and over again and never finding the answer.

And she could ask him now, and he wouldn't lie to her. He wouldn't. Because he had nothing to lose. Because if he lied to her now, it wouldn't make any difference.

He had nothing to hide. The truth was out now, wasn't it? It did no good to try and protect anybody's reputation, because a reputation was just that – a reputation. Meant to be built and ruined. Crashed and burned. And perhaps Hermione had taken extensive measures in making sure the world knew all about his nasty little lie and robbing him a bit of his dignity – but that didn't matter, did it? What was dignity based on, exactly? She was quite certain that it was perceived differently on the Malfoy grounds. It reeked of terribleness and bad deeds. For all she knew, he might be having a little party inside his head right now because now everyone knew that he had been able to fool Hermione Granger, one of the most brilliant people in Hogwarts. And he would make himself look superior while thinking that he had made Hermione look like a despondent fool.

Hah – as _if_. _She_ wasn't the one with a broken nose.

And Hermione Granger was _anything_ but a fool.

But she did consider jamming her finger into his temple to make sure that he wasn't gloriously praising himself inside that insufferably haughty head of his.

"You deserved it," she suddenly found herself saying, her voice hoarse but quiet and sharp like a double-edged sword. "You know every bit of it, you deserved."

He didn't say anything to her; she wasn't even certain if he had heard her, but she knew he did. There was a sudden intensity in the air that chilled their dispositions. The silence seemed a lot colder than it had been before, burdened down with something only history could carry along like a thorny crate: ravaged and well-founded but now not exactly tangible to the extent that the sole heart of its existence wavered. She found that quiet – a rash, loud quiet – lapping at her scars. They were silver in appearance because it had managed to heal with mind power and a strong resistance to human nature and emotion. Extraordinary scars that had nothing to do with every day life but had every bit to do with anger and suppression and revenge.

She thought that the best revenge would have been to move on. Successfully. To show that he hadn't affected her long-term and that he'd only helped her in some obscure way. But then she looked at him from the corner of her eye, and she found him with his head down. Not obviously, but his gaze was pointed to the floor, at his feet. Maybe somewhere beyond it. But there was something miserable and wretched about it… the way his shoulders inevitably slouched from an angle yet if she stepped a little to the right they seemed just as high as they'd ever been, bolstered with wealth and self-involvement. She couldn't see his face but she discovered that she really didn't want to. Didn't want to see what she'd done to him while she was standing up like this and he was sitting down.

Because perhaps their roles had reversed somehow. She'd hurt him, humiliated him, and now he was sitting in the hospital wing with her spitting in his face that she'd had every right to maul him in the corridor. It seemed… cruel. No, not cruel at all. How could she be thinking like this? She had the right to be cruel towards him. But to what limit? _Were_ there limits?

And, possibly, the fact that she had broken his nose had made her superior to him. Put her a notch up the ladder. And she hated that for some reason, because she hated the argument of superiority they were always fighting over and she didn't want to be part of it at all. She didn't _want_ to be superior to Draco Malfoy, for feeling that way would have made her exactly _like_ him. She'd just wanted to resolve her anger and shove him back into his place. She was going to make absolutely certain that he wasn't going to walk around with his head in the clouds thinking that he was one of them now. No. He'd _never_ be one of them.

"Maybe so, Granger. But I wasn't the one who looked like a barbarian in front of two dozen children."

Disgustingly, as if his broken nose had proved nothing of her temper, it still dripped with the same contempt and arrogance.

"That's what you get for living with a man," he then mumbled, his tone acrimonious.

Hermione, puzzled, and not quite getting what he had meant by his last remark, furrowed her brows. Before she could ask him exactly what his intention had been behind that (and pressuring him to tell her by gripping a good handful of his pretty blond hair and threatening to tear it out), she heard the sound of the door opening and heard Harry behind her.

"Hermione? We'd better go."

"Right," she said, still giving Draco a look. "Right, I know."

And then she turned away, catching one last glimpse of his bandaged face intently glowering at her with such fire that if he'd possessed such a power he would have burned her into a mere pile of ash by now. She briskly walked to Harry who was waiting for her, grateful to finally escape from the presence of an ill-borne man, and could have sworn that as the door swung closed behind her she'd heard him call her a very dirty word. Which she didn't doubt at all, not even for a second.

oooo

Hermione didn't know how she'd let Harry and Ron drag her to the Three Broomsticks when she had work the next day, but when it came to some things these boys had always been two of the most tenacious people she'd ever met and had even – on some occasions – regretted having become such good friends with them. Around seven o'clock after just finishing another one of her books (which she had rated a lowly three out of five stars in her personal reading log because it had seemed very bland and tasteless to her) Harry had just randomly announced that the three of them were all going to the Three Broomsticks.

Going to the Three Broomsticks at their age was probably a bit strange, but they all knew that Hermione never liked to consume any alcohol anyway, so they just went there. Besides, it had one of the clearest turbulent-free Apparation areas and that was a great deal convenient for the three of them since they'd all had their round of bad trips due to bad reception.

And it was the only place that hadn't kicked out Ron, who had a tendency to be loud and obnoxious when he was drunk – mainly because the workers were all told that they couldn't serve any to him to save them the embarrassment. It was Hermione who'd made that up, which was probably why Ron rarely ever liked going out with them. While it was true that they were best friends, the things they often did caused temporary rifts in their relationship, which happened to be a lot unpleasant just because they happened to be two naturally stubborn people who clashed. There was Hermione, who had a short temperament to jokes and quips – and Ron, who made vulgar jokes and quips all the time. Obviously, the two weren't the best people to meet up with, but somehow – and maybe it was just because of a little tweaking from the Big Man Upstairs – it worked.

Sometimes.

"So what exactly are we celebrating?" Ron asked as they scooted into a booth. He grinned at Marie, the new girl they'd just hired, who rolled her pretty eyes at him. He then shook his head as she went by; muttering to himself about alpha females while Hermione was sending him a dry look (that he ignored).

Hermione was quite sure that Ginny had owled her brother as soon as news had broken out about her breaking Draco Malfoy's nose, but now that she had to use Pig (Pig was one of the Weasley hand-me-downs, along with Scabbers, before he turned out to be none other than the cowardly Peter Pettigrew) and Pig often had problems with flying. It was a 50-50 chance one would actually receive the owls sent via Pig, so she assumed that maybe it would be the latter.

"Hermione," said Harry, who was smiling at her proudly. He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little – partly because she was embarrassed – as she shook her head. As if punching Draco Malfoy and breaking his nose wasn't a big deal.

Even though she kind of knew it was.

Which was why she was kind of glad they were taking her out for it.

"And, pray tell, _why_ are we celebrating Hermione?" Ron said, squinting at her. "What has she done this time?" he said dryly, leaning back. "Made a person explode just by thinking about them?"

"Very funny, Ron," said Hermione, like it wasn't very funny.

"You'll never guess," said Harry, chuckling. "I bet you one Sickle that you'd never guess."

Ron's blue eyes brightened, sensing a challenge. His ginger brows rose, looking at Hermione in intrigue. "So it must be pretty brilliant then, huh?" he asked. "If I can't guess it."

"Don't start," Hermione told him, though not as sternly as she knew she should have. She scowled. "I already know your guesses. We've heard them before, you big ingrate." Even now, Ron received masses of entertainment by mocking her achievements any time he could. Hermione had always thought that it had just been the product of his secret envy – his crude jokes – but then later on concluded that maybe there was no envy involved and that he just liked turning her rewards into silly little inside jokes that he always snorted about that was eternally followed by Hermione pinching him on the arm as some kind of justifiable retribution.

And there was no laughing about it then. Hermione was a _mean_ pincher.

Harry cut in. He seemed excited, and Hermione reckoned it was because it was the only "good" thing that stupid Draco Malfoy's drop-in had brought upon them. That, and she also kind of knew that Harry felt bad that he couldn't tell Ron about their business with Dumbledore. He had told her earlier why Dumbledore had requested it, and while Harry had been truly angry, he was solemn about it now. Because even if Dumbledore hadn't asked him, he knew he wouldn't have told Ron anyway. Just because he cared too much about him to drag him into this mess. And she knew that if Harry Potter had _really_ had his way, she wouldn't have been involved either.

"Today, we went to Hogwarts to talk to Dumbledore. Malfoy was there. Hermione punched him and broke his nose."

Hermione, for some unfathomable reason, mildly cringed. Their whole booth fell into an obscure silence and the noise of mixed conversations and laughter fled into their ears, gliding against the polished wood of their table and morphing their expressions oddly in the reflections from the light. It seemed that Ron was in the same nonsensical state of shock that Hermione recalled she'd been in, hearing Draco Malfoy roar in pain in the vast and motionless corridor and cover his nose from her blow, although it had already been too late. She looked down at her hand and remembered scrubbing it fiercely yet grinning like a madwoman once they'd gotten back to their flat as if she could've erased the guilt from her hands – guilt that had made her feel tough for a few hours before it had eaten her away.

It wasn't that she felt guilty for doing it to _him_. No, it was just that Hermione was not the sort of person to go around punching people on the noses, no matter how much they deserved it and how long they'd had it coming without feeling a tad resentful. Of course, she only felt _slightly_ bad – not enough to ruin her day and think of apologizing. The amount was microscopic, in fact. But she couldn't help but think that if she kept analyzing it like she was, highlighting all of the good points and all of the bad points (which she wished were nonexistent), it would only make it seem bigger and _truly_ ruin her day. Something, of which, she wasn't too fond of experiencing, especially now that they were "honoring" her.

Ron's laughter soared above the chatter and the clinking glasses. Harry and Hermione forgot how loud he could be sometimes even when he wasn't drunk. But they couldn't help the fact that not a moment later he was pounding his fist on the table, laughing his ginger head off, and they grinned because Ron always had a way of making things seem a lot bigger than they were – in a nice way. In a way that made Hermione feel comfortable with herself, which had seemed dismal because of the whole injuring Malfoy thing. Even if he'd deserved it and she'd been _dreaming_ about it for a very long time. A whole year, in fact.

And so she thought that maybe that was why it worked. Because each of them, even if they clashed and she was perhaps a _tad_ too anal-retentive and Ron was a _lot_ obnoxious, had a little something that they were good at that the other person was missing, and it was enough to compensate for all of the other horrible stuff. Yeah, she remembered now that she'd seen that on a movie on the telly once before. Which would probably be the reason why it had popped into her mind the moment it had – a ridiculous moment because Ron was laughing so loud and shaking that he looked as if he was having a seizure. Because Hermione Granger was _not_ sentimental when it came to _Ron_. At least, rarely. Maybe if he was dying or something. But, _ugh_. How could anyone _possibly_ be sentimental about a boy who still flicked bogeys at people in a _normal_ situation? _Honestly_?

But she had to admit, she wasn't too saddened that he was laughing so hard she could almost see the little tears glistening at the corner of his happy eyes. People were looking over and the bartenders and waitresses were giving them nervous looks, but Hermione, smiling, had only mouthed to them that it was okay.

Ron Weasley gasped for air. "Hermione… Malfoy… punched… broke… nose!"

And she grinned wider, almost as wide as Harry who appeared to be very pleased with himself, because she actually felt a lot happier about it now. So it _wasn't_ so bad (although she'd known it all along – really), punching Malfoy and breaking his nose. Ron thought it funny – even if he didn't exactly know the reason why. And from the way he was doubling over with his laughter, it didn't seem that it would matter either. And Hermione didn't want to ruin it for him. She could tell that he had been waiting for this for a long time, when she would finally stick up for herself by doing something outrageously extravagant, and now she had. Hermione Granger had stuck up for herself and proved her worth. And that she had a fist and she wasn't afraid to use it. If that didn't say Girl Power, she didn't know what did.

She grinned. If only her feminist aunt could see her now.

Minutes later, Ron wiped the tears from his eyes. She could tell that his jaw hurt from laughing so hard from the way he poked at it with his hand.

"Well, welcome to humanity, Hermione," he told her as Harry came back with their drinks, gripping his mug. The butterbeer smelt just as sweet as it ever did, foamy like a warm sea inside their glasses. "I don't know why you did what you did, but I know that it was either downright stupid or heinously brilliant."

She smiled, laughing. For once, Ronald was right. She got the gist as if he'd experienced this before, which was the only reason he did get it right. But she appreciated it. It was a warning in its own way – the alternation of glory and the shame. And Ron meant to be sincere. He always did. Well, sometimes. Although he did have that famous mischief streak he'd mercilessly inherited from his brothers, which Hermione was not such a crazy fan of. She hated it, really.

Grinning like a madman, Ron raised his glass.

"To Hermione," he said loudly and clearly.

Hermione shook her head while she felt her cheeks warm and the lights in the Three Broomsticks twinkled at her. She felt an uncanny pinch in her heart because she couldn't recall any time when they'd ever really toasted to her and almost wondered why that was. She'd had better accomplishments than this, hadn't she?

But she supposed that those seventy-nine top job offers _weren't_ as monumental as punching a childhood bully (and ex-sodding-boyfriend) and breaking his perfect nose. Why, they'd made it seem as if her entire life had been leading up to this glorious moment – but maybe it had, in a way. If the world didn't have better plans for her, which was sad, but at least she'd punched the person she'd wanted to punch for a very long time. Which _should_ up her score a bit. Like, ten gazillion points.

Harry nodded and raised his glass as well, looking at her expectedly as she finally raised hers, but took her time doing it. They patiently waited.

"For beating the sod out of Draco Malfoy," finished Harry.

"And for looking good doing it," said Ron, even though Hermione had no idea how he could know that, seeing as how he'd been at the Burrow helping Mrs. Weasley when they had been in Hogwarts. But, either way, she was flattered. Ridiculously flattered.

"Here here!" the two boys shouted, Ron's blue eyes twinkling with happiness just like Harry's green ones, and all at once, with Hermione laughing, they all clinked glasses.

**Please Review!**

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**Next chapter:** A sneak-peek just because I'm oh-so-kind, and no, I'm not expecting any of you to keel over by death of anticipation any time soon… What's this? Hermione Granger having dinner at the Malfoy Manor? And – GASP! – _LUCIUS MALFOY!_


	4. The Discernments of Hermione Granger

If It Was You

**A/N:** Thanks to my beta, Jojo, who has faithfully kept up with Draco and Hermione. :-) And thanks to _you_ for reviewing and waiting for these chapters! You lot are all so lovely. So, in this chapter: Hermione and Harry go to the Malfoy Manor and get a bit of a surprise by the name of… Read to find out! (Cackles evilly)

**Dedication**: To the truly cool Ms. Kelly.

**The Discernments of Hermione Granger**

Unfortunately, the thrill of nearly breaking Draco Malfoy's face and perhaps even bruising his inflatable ego had lost its sparkling luster within a month or two, although Hermione herself envisioned that punch every night before bed. Just to remind herself that she had something to be incredibly proud of, being sort of like Joan of Arc and all, standing up to her bully. It was mad when she thought about it (and she thought about it often), how she'd mustered up her brave wits and just laid it on him like – what was his name again? Ike Tyson? She wasn't sure, but she felt terrifically empowered and that – she told herself – should be all that mattered. And it did matter. Then she'd visited her parents one weekend and was nearly falling out of her seat to tell them all about it (gory details and all) until she realized that her mother had not raised a daughter to be excited about informing them all about her indescribable elation of punching a man.

And so, to her great disappointment, she didn't tell them. Not even about going back to Hogwarts and talking to Dumbledore. Because suddenly she'd felt ashamed for being connected to that incident – for being the cause of it – and every time her mum looked at her with those kind brown eyes of hers, she felt the cruelest resentment she knew she never wanted to ever feel in the whole of her life. She wanted to tell them for she thought it was a _great_ feat, an immense one at that, but was actually afraid of the disapproving look they would give her. And Hermione _hated_ disappointing people. She dreamt about it at night and woke up screaming.

Although, she did consider telling them _why_ it was so prodigious. About how he'd fooled her and lied to her and had broken her heart like some animal. But she really didn't feel like picking and sifting through all of her memories and presenting the most horrible ones to them to prove something that didn't _need_ to be proven just because everyone knew it already – that Draco Malfoy was a stupid cad who _deserved_ that broken nose more than anybody. Because, first of all, they hadn't even known anything about Draco Malfoy and her being involved. Second: there was _no_ way over her grandmum's grave that she was going to tell them. And third: her parents didn't deserve that sort of shame, knowing that their daughter was tricked into love by some obviously nefarious boy who talked with a terrible drawl that embodied all of the evils of the earth and had hair the color of hay. Even _she_ couldn't take that shame all at once.

She didn't think that it'd be fair telling them all about her grotesque misadventures over at Hogwarts – that were _still_ happening now. Maybe they'd have her institutionalized. (Her parents had some friends who worked there, so it was highly plausible). But then, she thought they were too nice to ever do that to their daughter. Even if she deserved it.

She only ended up telling them about her recent job offer over at the library, which she then said she was most likely to take only because she knew she'd have a great time there, surrounded by all those books, which was more than she could say for her current job. Although, talking about her job had always seemed to succumb into this sort of melancholy and awkward silence because of what she was doing now. But it wasn't as much as what, but why. Dumbledore had told them all about how she and Harry needed to keep a low profile until they defeated the Dark Lord and so they needed to get mediocre jobs that didn't involve much exposure. Hermione remembered vividly how she'd felt hearing that. Heartbroken, almost, but it was a different sort. (And, by Merlin, she _knew_ how heartbreak felt like, mind you.) She remembered how unfair she'd thought it was and how she couldn't face Harry for days because she feared what could possibly slip from her mouth. That maybe she'd blame him even though she really didn't. And Harry didn't need all that, really. He probably even blamed himself a bit. He just needed his friends to be there for him and _not_ emphasize all the difficulties in their labors because it was already there, whether they liked it or not.

And so that was how Harry had gotten a job doing paperwork at an Auror's office. Hermione applied for a job being a bartender over at the Three Broomsticks although she hadn't had to; Madam Rosmerta was all too ecstatic to give her a job there. She wasn't angry because she wasn't living out her dreams just yet for she knew that this was just a delay and eventually, when this was all over, she'd get to do what she wanted. But she did feel sympathetic towards Harry. There he was, sitting at a desk and doing all of the tedious paperwork while he watched somebody else live his dream. Hermione knew that had to sting, but he never told her about it. Usually he came home and he was happy. As happy as they could be, anyway, considering their current situation.

But the pay was surprisingly good and they were fortunate with their present living conditions. Ron was still living at the Burrow to help out his family (that, and he felt homesick all the time, which was the reason he didn't want to move in with Harry and Hermione. Hermione called him a baby, of course, which then caused him to ignore her for about three days until she brought him some chocolate frogs). He had a job helping out Fred and George with their infamous joke shop. The Weasleys were now getting a steady flow of money and it was good to see how Mrs. And Mr. Weasley's faces had seemed to get younger because of the relief from stressing over tight budgets. They'd been happy before, but the money helped pay the bills and all of the extra luxuries that they couldn't afford before (Fred and George had paid for a few vacations for their parents), and if it was even possible, they were even happier. Not because of the money, but because they didn't have to worry about all the little things anymore.

Fred and George had generously offered Harry and Hermione jobs at the joke shop right after they'd stepped foot out of Hogwarts, but they'd both declined only because they had a feeling they would somehow end up being the guinea pigs of whatever new invention they came up with. Fortunately, they'd reeled in Seamus and Neville instead. And Hermione didn't even _want_ to hear about that.

However, on this particular day, it seemed as if it had gotten out to the whole of Hogwarts castle what Hermione Granger had done to Draco Malfoy because now every time she showed up to the library there was a mass of students there eagerly awaiting her. Hermione had to squeeze her way through a throng of thirty or so students to try and get to the front desk and when she had finally gotten there, a little disheveled but a whole lot confused at what was happening, they all rushed up to her desk like they were at an early-bird bargain sale, with keen eyes and books that she was _sure_ they had just picked out on a whim.

"Is it true that you punched Draco Malfoy?" one Hufflepuff asked her with bright eyes as Hermione gave her a look of bewilderment, stamping her book. "Out in the hall? Is it true that you broke his nose?"

Hermione had meekly answered her questions, but was then overwhelmed by a surge of swarming attention as she was shoved out of the line and two girls – who looked like twins – with Gryffindor badges almost lunged at her with their books. Who was then followed by… well, the rest of the lunatics eager on burying Hermione with questions either about her breaking Draco Malfoy's nose or the infamous Harry Potter.

"Is it true that Harry Potter was here as well? D'you think you could get his autograph for me? What about – d'you think he'd sign my broom?"

"Do you think Harry Potter would want to be my new baby sister's godfather?"

"What did Draco Malfoy do to get you to punch him? How hard did you punch him?"

"Did you mean to break his nose?"

"Were you two going out?"

"What about Harry Potter? Aren't you with him now? Or is that just a rumor? Because I heard Shelley and Marie talking about it the other day and I don't believe them. But then they said that it was from Witch Weekly."

"How'd you get Harry Potter to be your boyfriend? Could-could you break up with him so I could have a go? It'd only be fair."

"How does he get so good at Quidditch? D'you think you could ask him to train me? Me and my mates, we've been following up on his Quidditch stuff, and we'd really like it if he could just show us a move or two so we could get on the Quidditch team. Or – does he write recommendations?"

"I'd like to punch a bloke or two. Do you think you could teach me? I mean, I don't think I could break anybody's nose, but it'd be a start, yeah?"

"Does Harry Potter work here too?"

"Do you have his address? I made him a scarf and I think I really could—"

"All right," Hermione finally said, standing up so fast that her chair almost fell over behind her. "This is a _library_, not some interrogation hall. So please, if you all are just borrowing books so you could ask me meaningless questions about Harry Potter or breaking Draco Malfoy's nose, please put your books back and _leave_." Then Hermione stopped herself. She then remembered how careless children were and immediately corrected herself. She knew that they were just going to be sticking their books in random places and she couldn't take that. "No, actually, set them all over there at that table and _then_ leave. Thank you."

The students were frozen for a moment, just staring at her while still clutching their books. She could spot a grinning Ginny Weasley in the back row and scowled.

"But—"

"Out," Hermione said firmly. "_Now_. All of you."

They all groaned out loud in disappointment. Then the chatter started up again as they began to complain about her as they turned their bodies around and begrudgingly stacked their books on the table before stomping out of the library. Hermione watched each one to make sure that they didn't go to the bookshelves and shoved it in the incorrect place and when one particular Weasley skipped up to her, she shooed her away and told her to go "snog your new boyfriend, or something." (Hermione suspected Ginny had encouraged this ambush on her.) Finally, the students departed and Hermione sighed with relief at the silence of the library. Muttering to herself, she went over to the table where they had stacked all of their books and grabbed five, hoisting them into her arms, and going off to put them back in their right places.

After about five trips back and forth to the shelves and the tables, Hermione finally had her last load of books. She was slightly irked for the students had gone as far-fetched as the philosophy books in the far back that always had been a pain to find anything in because all of them were so different. And so for a full ten minutes she was crouched over there, running her finger through the dusty covers, searching for Sir Arnold Shandy II's section – which she was quite certain was not there because she'd passed over this area five times already. Hermione sighed in frustration. Where had this book _come_ from? The _Twilight Zone?_

Just then, Hermione caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye. Someone was waiting for her at the other end of the bookshelf.

"Just a minute," she said absentmindedly, biting her lip and determinedly skimming through the authors once again. "I'll be with you in a minute." But, no, she'd lied: that minute had turned into five, at which she had then taken advantage of by standing up and going up on her tip toes to inspect the top section – without even looking at the student waiting for her.

"Granger, for Merlin's bloody sake, would you hurry up?"

Hermione's books fell from her hand.

Wincing as one of the heavier tomes hit her foot, she hastily glanced up at the voice that she already knew all too well. Her eyes narrowed vindictively while her heart beat thunderously in her chest from the surprise, his voice still ricocheting inside her ears and making her nerves fray, clenching her jaw at whom it was grousing about her bad service. She was disappointed – grossly disappointed – to see that there wasn't that bandage taped to his face anymore. She'd quite liked that bandage. It'd made him look like an idiot.

Which, he was.

So much that the word did not even serve him justice.

"Didn't I break your nose?" she snapped, before she could think twice about it. Not like she would've, anyway. She was perfectly content with the enmity she naturally herded into his direction. "What are you doing out of the house?" She really hated how advanced the wizarding world's medical attention was sometimes. What should have been torturous, grueling months of healing for the broken cartilage in his nose had been inconveniently shortened into a mere two months of insufficient absence. And now, as she looked at him, she could only see the very light purplish hint on his nose that she figured had been the bruise from her punch.

And she hadn't even deformed his nose the slightest bit. She hated that. His nose was still the same as it had been: perfectly crafted and stupidly posh. There was nothing left of her superb act of revenge, not even a scar. Nothing. All there was was a fading bruise that would continue to fade until it was gone and his face would be the same again. Nothing there to remind him of what he had done to her every time he looked in the mirror. Nothing there to remind him that Hermione Granger was the last person he ever wanted to mess with or else he'd be facing another broken body part – or, worse. She could maim him if she was angry enough.

He scowled at her. Obviously he didn't find her remark very funny. "Dumbledore sent me to get a book."

"Well, then," said Hermione coldly, turning away from him to get the rest of the fallen books. She suddenly had the urge to get all of them at once and start chucking them at him until he ran out screaming like a little girl. Five points for his chest. Three for his arms. And ten for his face. "Go get it. What do you think I am? Your slave?"

"I need the key to the Restricted Area."

Hermione stiffened, but started moving again as she gripped the last book on the floor. She stood up and placed it on the other three books on her arm, turning to look at him with a contemptuous look.

Boy, she really wished she'd _really_ broken his nose so that there'd been no way of repairing it. Because she was certain that if she had, there was no way he'd look so smug in that couture outfit of his, the pretentious little snake.

She could feel that her hands were slightly moist against the worn leather of the books as she silently brushed past him, her eyes shrinking into slits as she headed towards her desk. She heard his footsteps after her and that almost made her walk faster, laying the books down on the wood and bending down to retrieve the key from her drawer. She used her fingers to work in the combination and as the lock clicked open, she opened the drawer and took out the key. She handed it to him, making sure not to touch any part of his outstretched palm for fear of contracting a disease or something. Like the Pompous Bastard disease. Or the Lying, Manipulative Beast disease.

"Get what you need and come back here to the desk. Make sure not to forget the key," she said frigidly to him. Then, tearing her fiery gaze away from his ice-cold ones, she then proceeded in snubbing him, as was her original plan if she ever saw his boorish face again, and gathered up the books again and set them aside. She got a few out of the Return box and began to stamp out their return dates.

And Draco Malfoy, intensely glowering at her, silently turned and headed towards the Restricted Area without another word.

Subconsciously, as his towering figure disappeared from her sight, she wondered what he thought of her now, working as a librarian. She wondered if he was surprised, or if he thought it was a lowly position – oh, why should she care about what _he_ thought? It was loads better than his job, whatever it was. He probably didn't even _have_ a job. Mostly likely he was one of those snobby trust fund babies that didn't have to work for anything in their lives because their parental units had been loaded – like Paris Hilton, or something. It made her furious when she thought about it. Children of high-class never working for a single thing in their lives and just living off of their parents… how incredibly low. And no doubt Malfoy was one of those. He was even probably going to end up _marrying_ Paris Hilton so they could each co-create even stupider trust fund babies.

God, that was a laugh.

She simply thought that it was funny how the world was divided up into two sorts of people, that was all. The ones that worked. The ones that didn't because there was no need to. She thought it unfair in a big extravagant and ugly way and she even got back to thinking about Lucius Malfoy and Mister Weasley. How Senior Malfoy had looked down on the Weasleys through his nose, as if they were lower than him, when in reality it was the other way around. Money didn't make anyone superior than anybody, and she remembered her mum telling her that once. Money was just a safe thought, even though everyone insisted on thinking of it as something to judge people and rank by. And perhaps that was how the world worked, manipulated daily by little metal coins and papers with people's faces on it. Maybe they _needed_ money to make the world work. But she was just sick of people like the Malfoys who thought that just because they had enough money to feed numerous third world countries (but didn't), they were somehow higher beings than everyone else. As if God had knighted them, or something.

When, in reality, God had probably only spat on them.

She continued to vent in her thoughts about all of the imperfections of Draco Malfoy (there were loads – she couldn't even list them down because there were so many. He was practically a _monument_ to loud imperfections) as she furiously stamped the books. The ink had blotched some of the pages but Hermione paid no mind to them and instead forced incredible labor and strength into that rubber stamp, visualizing that it was her fist and that she was punching the trust fund bastard again.

And it sort of made her feel better… taking into consideration that he was still in the same room as her.

She wasn't even guilty. No, not when she saw him. For those two months she had actually felt a pinch of sympathy towards him but as soon as she saw him standing there and heard his drawling, imperious voice, that pinch of sympathy had been tided away by a completely different feeling. Sympathy, shwympathy. When it came to Draco Malfoy, sympathy did not exist. _Could_ not exist with such an indomitable presence. That was a fact. She might have felt sorry for him before, but now his nose was just fine and he could breathe through his nostrils again, and all she felt like doing was hurting him again.

And she knew it was a mad thing to be thinking. She really thought that she'd turned into some insane person but she couldn't help but think it. Maybe she was obsessed with physically injuring him. Maybe she was a sadist. She didn't know. Or, maybe, she was just angry.

Yes. Hermione Granger was a very angry girl.

Normally, she wasn't one to hold grudges because it was tiring. And she had better things to do than be angry with people, like study. But now it came like a reflex. Like it was set on automatic and if someone mentioned Draco Malfoy, swoosh, there it was. There was no asking for it. It came, and it conquered. End of story.

"Here."

She found the key, rusty and rough from age, set down in front of her, along with a book. She glanced at the book she'd been handling and sighed, spying the ink marks on her hands, putting the stamp aside. The page she'd been stamping had about twenty stamps on it by now, the page sodden and black. It stank of the strong fumes of magical ink. She pushed it to her right and took Draco Malfoy's book, opening up to the first page and stamping it. She watched as the enchanted ink shimmered for second before setting into the book. Then she closed it, not even raising her eyes up at him, and moving it towards him. She took the key and locked it back inside the drawer.

Then she continued to ignore him. And she felt a bit awkward at first, because he just stood there with his book, not going anywhere. She wondered if he was really that dense as to not get the hint to leave. What did he want? An escort? A "Thank you, please come again"? Because she was _not_ paid to be friendly to some githole. She was paid to be friendly to students and books. She was a librarian, for goodness' sake. Not a stripper.

"You're a lousy librarian," she heard him say to her, as if trying to hurt her feelings, before he walked away, leaving the library and slamming the oaken doors. Hermione did not even flinch at the sound. Instead she got out her wand, tapped it on the ink-soaked page of the other book she had ruthlessly stamped the living pulp out of, and whispered a spell. She watched as the ink quickly disappeared.

And then she closed her eyes, sighing to herself, longingly imagining that perfect day when she had punched and broken Draco Malfoy's nose again.

oooo

On the exterior, the sudden doughty presence of Draco bloody Malfoy did not change much. Hermione still had her routine days, even if she did have her new job at the library. But even new things turned old – quicker now, for some odd reason. At the library there were seldom any busy days, but when there were, they came in swarms. Usually it was when professors assigned essays or assignments, and it was then she'd be fairly preoccupied with helping out the students. She even helped them with their research. She still received comments about her breaking Draco Malfoy's nose and was asked questions about Harry Potter, but she'd learned how to give ambiguous answers to those.

However, she could not exactly pinpoint a day when she _didn't_ think about him. Inside, deep inside that neat-looking psyche of hers, there was a whole gushy jumble of things like disconcertment and contempt and anger that all connected to him. She felt like a ball of yarn ripped to shreds and then tangled up back together again. With every meeting Dumbledore called them to (where she saw Draco but just ignored him as she was too busy taking all of this information in – but not too busy, however, to imagine that single definitive moment of breaking his nose again), instead of walking out with that certain clarity of the hidden evils around her, she stumbled out even more confused than before. There were times when she would just sit in her bed at night, cuddled by her covers, and just lie awake. And think. And just think. And she never could recall what she thought about – maybe it was just a montage of things vital in considering but never vital in remembering – but she always remembered the feeling. Like a fist was enclosed around her heart and it tightened, and tightened.

She often thought about the Dark Lord. Even though she never wanted to. It'd always been a hideous, dark, and grotesque subject that frightened the wits out of her. And she couldn't tell _what_ she thought about him for, or why. Perhaps only because it was his fault all of these things were happening. That now Harry came home looking a lot tired than ever before, and she found herself having those nightmares again. She was plunged into a place she never liked. Most like… the deep regions of the ocean, the murkiest, that if any human went down there they'd just implode because of the pressure. Like that. She felt exactly like that.

And then, sometimes, she would end up thinking about that nasty Dark Mark Draco Malfoy had had on his arm. Of course, she'd get angry. But there was always that unspoken thought of why. _Why_ had he done that? Because he'd wanted a way out? Because – what? Nothing made sense to her. But was that such a surprise? Nothing made sense to her anymore. Except punching him. That had made perfect sense. But besides that, naught. Zilch. Nil.

Learning all of the things they'd been up to in the last year and the time before that, like some secret underground corporation of spies (which they were), relieved her. Knowing that there were other people who cared just as much about Harry as her and Ron and about defeating the Dark Lord made her shakily smile with gratitude and contentment. And she could look at Dumbledore and see all of the vigor and enthusiasm he held for seeing the Dark Lord dead that maybe Harry couldn't – didn't want to – see, and the rest of the Order as well… but then as her gaze usually ran across each member inside the room, she always managed to hit a sore spot coming upon Snape and Malfoy.

Bastards.

It was always then that her sincere, thoughtful gaze turned into an icy glare. It was a reflex. And when they noticed her glaring daggers in their direction, they turned, and she always let them see exactly her disdain for them, unplugged. It was only a second later that she'd turn her head nonchalantly, leaving them with the remarkable sting of frostbite.

Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy was anything but thrilled at Hermione Granger's impetuous and stubborn behavior. Now, it was a clear – _crystal_ clear – fact that she had every reason to be acting like an antipathetic ice queen towards him, but that didn't mean that he still didn't want to somehow yell some sense into her, quite literally. He was tired of all of this. He truly was. He wasn't saying that he wanted to be palsy with her, dear Merlin, no, but the constant scowls and snubbing was exhausting – if not tremendously annoying. He wasn't expecting any less, though. Throughout that whole year they'd gone their separate ways he'd thought about that Dark Mark often. There hadn't been a single doubt in his mind that she'd find out about it soon and that when she did there would be absolute hell to pay. He really never considered understating Granger. Understating her would be like… hell, like being drunk and sober all at the same time. It would be strange and even nearly impossible.

Those meetings in Dumbledore's office were like a freak show. Honest. It bloody was. Why wouldn't it be? He saw Potter and Granger (_together_, which was even worse) and he had to listen to their former headmaster trying to sugarcoat things that already seemed diluted with his old man-ish fantasies of victories and no casualties. That, and he had to sit next to Snape, whom he still hadn't forgiven yet, not even a little, and who _still_ hadn't washed his hair since he'd last seen him. He watched Granger. He tuned out from the golden atmosphere of Dumbledore's office and his stupid old bird who was always sodding leering at him and he just stared at the back of her head, mentally daring her – just _daring_ – to turn around and look at him. He didn't know why he did that. Didn't even know why he only scowled at his former head of house when Snape elbowed him and growled under his breath for Draco to pay attention. Most often Draco dreamt about breaking Snape's nose, to be brutally honest. Ironic how it ended up happening to _him_.

Stupid Granger.

Merlin, it was all just so unresolved, was what it was. Draco had a problem with that and it _killed_ him that he didn't even have a good reason why. He _hated_ Granger for punching him in front of two-dozen children and breaking his nose – the thing he used to _breathe_ – and hated it even more that she knew what he had done to her and it seemed like women were just getting so damned aggressive nowadays that it wasn't even funny. She'd humiliated him in his own school. Now all of the children looked and pointed at him, sniggering. They all said he got beat up by a girl. He had enough composure to keep from saying that Granger wasn't a _girl_; she was a savage and a beast. Girls _did not_ punch boys. Certainly, they slapped, and she had that skill down tact if he could recall their third and seventh year clearly – but where in the _hell_ had she learned how to punch? Was it Weasley? Probably. Stupid fool had probably coached her or something just 'cause it was the only thing he was good at. Throwing punches and looking stupid.

Stupid temperamental bint.

Ugh.

He _hated_ her.

"Now, I propose that you have dinner with Mister Malfoy to discuss your part of the plan," said Dumbledore, lowering his glasses on the bridge of his nose and regarding them seriously. "The sooner, the better. In fact, tonight would be the perfect time."

Draco wanted to gag. He instantly felt the stiffness inside the air, as if time itself had frozen from such awkwardness and revulsion, compacting to make their spines shoot rigid against the backs of their sagging chairs that suddenly felt all too small. Both Snape and Fawkes were leering at him now with their beady black eyes. Draco felt his fingers sink into the vivid material of his armchair, looking ahead at his former headmaster with a crease betwixt his pale brows as if acid had just burned him right there.

"I—"

Up ahead, he saw Granger's bushy head shake in complete disapproval and he had to say that while he was relieved to know that he was not alone in his headstrong desire to be as far away from them as possible (if he could move to Alaska he would have already but he was bound by contract), he felt something on his ribs tighten as if he was wearing one of those… corsets, was it? He didn't know. But the point was, he didn't like where Dumbledore was taking this at all. _Foolish, senile old man_! Had they had just _stuck_ to his original plan he wouldn't have gotten Granger involved at all. She wasn't even going to be any help. All she was going to do was _keep_ glaring at him and _keep_ punching him and _keep_ bloody holding Potty's hand while she potty-trained him or something equally disgusting.

_Ugh_! _Women_!

She was going to be trouble. He never liked to bring this up because it was all in the past (and it was never pleasant to think about considering the very plausible fact that now she was swapping spit with _Potter – _might as well be chugging down sewer water), but he knew the moment he'd kissed her in seventh year that she was going to be trouble. Nice girls don't kiss like that. No, they don't.

_Hell_ no they didn't.

"I don't know if that would be appropriate for our schedules," she began to say with a hoarse but sharp voice, making sure that Draco could hear her from behind, like it was supposed to hurt his feelings or something. All Draco wanted to do was grab that letter opener on ol' Dumbles' desk and lunge straight at all three of them and slit their throats. Snape, too. And then, perhaps, move to Alaska.

"I insist, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said and Draco mentally sighed, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. He felt a slight twitching on his neck as he looked on at this scene before him. Senile. He reminded himself that Dumbledore was _senile_. And one mustn't, by any means, murder a man for simply being senile. It'd be like murdering a dog for barking and not meowing. Whatever. "This must be discussed amongst yourselves _together_. Now, I know that things aren't exactly—"

"It isn't that," she lied, and Draco rolled his eyes.

Screw you, Granger, he wanted to yell at her. Screw you. Screw you and your stupid library and your stupid Potter. Screw your sewer-water-spit-exchange. Screw you!

Before she could say anymore, however, Harry Potter had spoken up, which caused Draco's eyes to flicker over to him in mild surprise. He still hated him, though.

"It's fine," he confirmed steadily. Draco watched amusedly as Granger's head whipped to the side, looking at Potter with wide eyes. He watched as they exchanged glances and saw as Granger slouched in her armchair in defeat. "Tonight," Harry Potter said, "is fine."

"Good. That's very good," Dumbledore said. He looked over at Draco, who was trying his best to hide the nausea bubbling in his stomach. _Dinner_ with Potter and Granger? _Together_? What in Merlin's name was _happening_? Did they _want_ to see him throw up all over the place? "What about you, Mister Malfoy?"

However, Draco very well knew it was not a question.

"Fine," he grumbled.

He'd be lucky if they didn't end up burning his house down.

ooooo

Hermione Granger was not, by any means necessary, intending to go to that formal "_shindig_" over at the Malfoy Manor Dumbledore had shoved into their unsuspecting faces. First: she had better things to do than dress up and go to a rat bastard prat's mansion and eat his stupid wealthy food while at the same time trying not to purposely spit it in his face and lunge at him with her sharp steak knife and shiny just-as-sharp fork. Second: she was well intent on escaping this life without a criminal record, thank you, and going to that _thing_ at his house she knew very well could jeopardize the innocence of her deeds. Third: she was a mental case right now, she admitted it. She really did think that she would plead temporary insanity and just start chasing him around with sharp kitchen utensils while screaming at him like a banshee about revenge and unrequited pain and stupid bastards like him who lived to bloody ruin everything. Who also lived especially to ruin people like her, Hermione Granger, and rob them of their very last commonsensical wits.

And so she made that very clear to Harry once they'd returned to their shared flat, slamming things and grumbling under her breath and then – proving that she really was distressed about things – even drinking straight out of the orange juice carton and chugging it down like a frat boy at a party with a keg. Keep in mind that Hermione Granger was a neat, orderly sort of girl – the sort of girl mothers would _pay_ to marry their sons. She did not do things like drink out of the orange juice carton; because Harry and Ron did that, and each time they did she made them drop a pence into the Orange Juice jar. It was, one could say, one of the Forbiddens at the Harry/Hermione "Just Friends" residence. One could not drink out of the milk carton or the orange juice carton _ever_.

Harry, who was sitting at their counter with his hand tucked in beneath his chin, was looking at her wearily.

"Hermione," he said, "what on earth do you think you're doing?" he asked, though there wasn't as much vigor in the question as there should always be when subtly asking about somebody's sanity. "Are you out of your mind?" He grabbed the Orange Juice jar and jangled it loudly, the coins clinking against the glass all at once. It was about halfway full and she'd just emptied it out two months ago.

She took her lips out of the carton, tasting the cardboard on her lips, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, storing it back in the fridge. "I can't drink beer," she said dazedly, as if she was amazed and disappointed at this fact. "I can't get drunk. I can't forget," she groaned, rubbing her face with her palms, as if she was trying to claw her face off. Then she looked at Harry, her face red and pink in irregular spots, looking sad and troubled – kind of like the look she got when he lost one of her books. Except she was a lot angrier when that happened than confused. "I'm not going," she said firmly, the miserable look instantly flickering away as she strongly said those three words. "I'm not going."

Harry sent her an exasperated look. "Hermione…"

"No, don't you 'Hermione' me," she snapped. "I'm not going, do you hear me? I don't care what Dumbledore says; there is _no_ way I'm going to that-that _choleric_ git's house, all right? And what did he say – we had to _dress up_? For what?" she scoffed in disgust. "So we could match his _furniture_?"

"It's not exactly a dream come true for me, either, but we've got to discuss this –"

"Then why can't we discuss it in _Dumbledore's_ office? Why do _we_ have to go all the way to Draco Malfoy's Dysfunctional Manor of Hauteur where his toilet seat is made out of diamonds and-and his napkins are made out of Japanese silk that poor Filipino children had to sew and tailor with their bleeding fingers for less than a pound a year –"

"Hermione," Harry said, firmly, startling her into silence. She tasted the orange juice on her tongue and almost gagged when she realized that Harry had bought orange juice with pulp. She _hated_ pulp. "Do you _want_ to be in, or not? Because if you don't, then you don't have to go to the Malfoy Manor. It's fine. I'd actually prefer it if you didn't go. But if you do, then you do. If you do, then you're in it all the way. Are you hearing what I'm saying?" he said, his voice sharp and clear. "In or out?"

Of course, the answer came automatically. Thinking was never needed when Harry asked her questions like this, maybe because no, this wasn't a joke – and no, this wasn't Happy Hour at their favorite bar. This was the _real_ thing. In or out. It sounded terrible and cheesy, but that was what it all came down to. And Hermione, she never even considered saying "Out." To be truthful, that idea scared her. She _hated_ thinking about the What Ifs. She didn't want to ever think about what would happen to her if she'd stepped out early because if she did, she felt as if she was betraying him, in a sense. And she was frightened that she might actually like what she thought and her scruples would be questioned. And so her answer, on automatic, shot out of her mouth without even a tendril of thought attached to it: "In." Because there was no thinking needed.

He looked at her gravely for a second, before sighing. They both lapsed into silence – a guilty one for her – and she stared at the glinting coins in the glass jar. Trapped. Easily disturbed by the flick of a wrist. It then came to her that she rather felt like one of those coins. Always shaken and never ending up where she had been before. And, suddenly, she felt like walking over to the counter, twisting off the lid, and running out into the middle of the street, flinging the coins everywhere, just to watch them shine one last time before they fell onto the grimy streets or rolled down into a storm drain or a rain vent. She knew it was those singular moments that really mattered.

"You're in," said Harry.

"I'm in."

"Then…" he hesitated. "Then you've got to go, Hermione. Don't-don't worry about Malfoy, all right? I'll make sure he behaves. Just don't do anything foolish." And he looked a bit strange as he said that, swallowing hard, almost appearing as if saying those words to her tasted foreign and weird. Yeah. No kidding. Even _hearing_ them felt weird. "Foolish" and "Hermione" did not go together. Until now.

"I mean, don't go doing something mad and out of order, okay?" he said. "I know it can be tempting when there are steak knives and forks and all sorts of shiny sharp things in front of you… but just keep your cool. I hate to say it" – and he really looked like he did – "but maybe he'll end up helping us. Maybe. And it won't help at all if you're going around punching him and breaking his nose all the time. It isn't exactly the most encouraging thing to do, you know."

He looked almost self-conscious as he said that, gently scratching his arm, looking at her. Then he stood, the air feeling weird all around them. "Pick out something nice. Be ready." And he left, plodding quietly to his room and shutting the door. And for the first time ever since they'd gotten this flat, Hermione heard the click of his lock.

Hermione stared dismally ahead of her, her head confused by a sour, obscure cloud of unpleasant thoughts. She'd forgotten her slippers and the tile was freezing underneath her soles. She was still clutching the fridge door and her palm was getting a bit sticky and wet. Sighing, she pulled at the door again, feeling the impact of compacted cold hit her as she stared at the lit contents of their refrigerator. She picked out the orange juice carton again. She closed the refrigerator, heading to get a glass before slowing down and stopping.

Looking down at the orange juice, she tipped her head backwards and shoved the carton yet again to her lips, enjoying the refreshing, orangey, _Two Percent More Pulp!_ rebellion, and drank until her head felt dizzy.

oooo

It was ridiculous and almost profane to herself that she spent an hour trying to pick out what to wear. It wasn't that she had any objective – she didn't want to impress him or anything, _yuck_. She wasn't aiming for that whole cinematic, sappy "Oh, I've loved you all this time!" rubbish, either. She just wanted to look nice, for a reason completely oblivious to her. She knew the Manor was a fancy place and it did sound as if Draco Malfoy was setting up a decent dinner… but she didn't even _care_, did she? All she was thinking about, laying out all of her dresses and blouses on her bed, biting her lip in thought with her hair still in damp curls (and only clad in her underwear), was how on _earth_ she was going to be able to survive going to this so-called Discussion Dinner without killing anyone, namely one Draco Malfoy. And which dress or blouse would look good on her were she to lose her mind and really go after him – something that would look good even if there happened to be any blood spurting.

She'd been playing some soft, mellow music earlier when she'd stepped out of the bath as to try to soothe her troubled self, but just like the aromatherapy soaps and candles she'd also tried, it didn't work. She could swear just the ill anticipation of this dinner was forming knots in her neck and shoulders and nothing seemed to match anything anymore – both in her current life _and_ wardrobe. She tried to remember the last time she'd bought clothes and it all seemed very blurry to her. She was trying to choose between a simple black dress, an emerald blouse and a pencil skirt, and another dress that she herself didn't even remember purchasing.

She ousted the emerald blouse and pencil skirt that had been bought purely for job interviews and executive opportunities that still have yet to transpire, due to the… delay of things. She thought it looked too plain and not _fierce_ at all – because that's what she decided she wanted to look. Fierce. It was the only thing that could fit her mood. Unfortunately, she didn't think she owned many _fierce_ things, and that was what was causing this problem.

She ended up choosing the black dress, editing it a bit with some small magic. Not as to make it sexier or anything.

Sort of.

She chose some shoes that wouldn't cut off the circulation from her feet in case she did have to do some chasing around and put her hair up in a hasty bun because she remembered that Draco had liked it down when they were… well, you-know-what.

Harry was waiting for her in the living room (he was watching the news on the telly and shaking his leg, a telltale sign of anxiousness) and his eyes flickered up when she came out of her room, adjusting her strap and even becoming doubtful of what she'd chosen to wear. It wasn't too fancy, but she still sort of felt… well, naked, in a sense. And now Draco Malfoy was going to _see_ her this way, and that almost made her wheel around and run back into her room again to change into some normal trousers and shirt. Yet as she pressed her lips together and looked at Harry, who was wearing something mildly formal as well, he nodded in approval before telling her that they had to leave.

"We're going to have to Apparate somewhere first, and then one of his butlers is going to fetch us there so he could drive us to the Manor," he told her, and Hermione stayed quiet, already feeling nauseous.

Unfortunately, when the Malfoy's butler did fetch them, he couldn't really _drive_ them anywhere, seeing as how he maneuvered a carriage. Hermione sighed as they were helped in, sitting down on opposite ends, looking very discontented about this. "I forget how old-fashioned the wizarding world is," she mumbled as they started to move, hearing the wheels moving underneath them, and they rolled away.

She didn't know how long the carriage ride took, but it seemed like a century. During that century, Harry and she both remained quiet for most of it for she realized that she was nervous. She didn't know why, and she _really_ didn't want to know, to be truthful. She was looking out of the small window, her face almost right against it, watching as they passed groves of trees and other manors. They passed a cemetery once and she shivered. It was then she began to wonder just how they were going to pull this off. What if they were seen by one of the Death Eaters?

"Harry," she blurted, flustering the still atmosphere and he looked at her as she hesitated. The wheels creaked. "How exactly are we… doing this? I mean, what if someone catches us? I know the Death Eaters have run away again, but what if… I mean, what if…"

"The manor has guards now," Harry told her. "Ever since Lucius was shipped off to Azkaban, they've put up Ministry guards to make sure no one can pass through. The Ministry's keeping a close watch on Malfoy and his family, so it'd be risky if Death Eaters were to try and stop by. It's all secure, Hermione. They've got Animagi surrounding the place just in case. So you've got nothing to be afraid of." He sounded so sure of this, so resolute, and Hermione felt a pang of envy. She was reminded of how strong Harry was. He probably wouldn't have even cared if Lucius Malfoy stopped by for a spot of tea – he'd probably just eye him coolly and then duel him, or something cool like that. Not freak out like her. There'd only been one instance she'd actually come close to Lucius Malfoy and that had been when he'd caught her in flagrante with Malfoy in the common room, and that had been _terrifying_. She didn't _freak out_, per se, but she'd been mentally hyperventilating once she'd gotten inside her room. And that, she was clever enough to know, was close enough.

Closer than she'd ever wanted to _be_ to that rotten carcass of a man.

But remembering that day, Hermione felt a spark dimly ignite in her head – just faintly. She couldn't exactly place a finger on what it was, or what had set it off, but she could clearly understand that it had to do with one person: Lucius Malfoy. Something seemed iffy about it now, as she looked back on it. She felt an uneasy squirming in her stomach as she rode in that damp carriage, still closely looking out of the small glass window, while Harry Potter glanced worriedly at her from time to time, unnoticed.

She was just going to ask how Harry knew all this – about the Malfoy Manor – when she peeled her face away from the window. She looked at him, about to speak, but that was when the carriage slowed down to a stop. Hermione, curious, looked out again and saw lights in the distance. She pressed her lips together as she saw the faint silhouette of the infamous Malfoy mansion vaguely reflected on one of the puddles on the ground. She couldn't look at the manor directly just yet, for all she saw as she looked up were dark, rolling clouds that – she oddly felt – hinted something ominous to her. She blatantly shivered.

"We're here," said Harry, and Hermione only nodded to the best of her ability. She felt a bit nauseous now, to tell you the truth. Who _wouldn't_ be? Going into Draco Malfoy's house of horrors and having to look at all of the things he'd so unashamedly had, all of the sparkling floors of expensive marble, silk, velvet and all of this _shit_ that Hermione quite beautifully had never had a taste for? She didn't want to see all of the things that he was proud of and what he had had. He'd had _her_, for Merlin's sake. It was stupid, but it was true. And she just didn't want to be reminded of it – not by the golden possessions and jewels and antique whatevers that would be sitting right outside of his many glistening corridors and staircases. She didn't _want_ to see how glamorously miserable his life was, growing up in a place where he couldn't touch anything. She didn't want to envy him; she didn't want to feel sorry for him.

She, quite plainly, just wanted to _hate_ him.

The carriage then began to move again, turning around to face the manor, and Hermione pressed her back up against the seat, letting the velvet curtains swish back into place, obscuring the possible peek she could have had at the manor. She stayed put, her mouth a firm horizontal line on her face, looking at her pale, shadowed feet. Then, for the final time, the carriage stopped moving.

"You all right?" Harry asked her. "You're quiet."

"I don't want to be here," said Hermione, without thinking at all.

Their gazes rested on each other's as she saw a shadow flicker outside of the carriage, Hermione feeling a slight reassurance radiate from her friend. Though, she still didn't know how to tell how things were when Harry was calm. He'd changed slightly over the years. Sometimes it could mean danger, and sometimes it could mean uncertainty. At different moments it could shift, like shadows in the sun, and look like the other, so it was difficult to tell.

"You're going to be okay," he told her, before the carriage door opened and Hermione slightly flinched as a gust blew in, along with speckles of rain, landing right on her skin. The doughy butler was grinning at them politely with two big black umbrellas floating behind him, waiting for Harry and Hermione.

"Deeply sorry about that," he said, and considering his pleasant and not sullen, _creepy_ disposition, Hermione knew that this was one of the help that the Ministry had hired. "Wish someone could just muster up the wits to control the weather, but no one's braved it yet – successfully, anyway. Someday maybe one of you lot, eh? Save us all this unexpected wetness." He brushed himself off. Then he looked up at Hermione and offered a gloved hand to her. Hermione took it and was led out, careful not to step in any of the puddles, and one of the floating umbrellas instantly followed her.

"There you are, Miss," he said. He then tried to give Harry a hand, but Harry was already out of the carriage by the time his attention had drifted back to him, the other black umbrella jumping after him. He looked at the pair admirably as the door of the carriage automatically closed and rode away by itself, disappearing once it was down the road. "Now, then, since you're all squared away, if you'll just follow me, I'll go ahead and take you into the Malfoy Manor. Come come, there's no need to be frightened. It's quite a beauty – hasn't been modified since the nineteen hundreds, but it's still in damned good condition. . . ." he chuckled.

Hermione looked up as they walked down the wide road to the manor. She saw its looming presence, almost eyeing her from its many verandas and balconies and windows. She could see the huge door up ahead, painted a threatening black, making it seem like a big gaping hole that one would get sucked into and never come back out of. She glimpsed at the wide spaces of emerald grass, the glistening white marble statues of angels, Gods, and Goddesses positioned in perfectly innocent places. There was a big fountain in the front. And she jumped as she saw something from the corner of her eye. She looked back, halting for a mere second, and watched as the gates behind them closed firmly, without a sound.

After all of the sightseeing of the vivid garden work and plants of the Malfoy's hired help, her slightly in awe of what she was seeing for it was nothing aggressive and elegantly hostile as she'd imagined, they began to walk up a few stairs to reach the black door. The butler was still chatting away, and Harry nodded along sometimes and looked rather attentive, but Hermione had tuned out. She didn't know if the rest of her company felt it, but she got a clear, yet woozy, sense of loneliness just by trekking past the front gardens alone. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was untouched. The grass looked like it had never been trod upon, the flowers miserable in their color, the fountain untainted by human fingers. It made her so suddenly depressed, being here. Sure, she hated what she was seeing, but she couldn't exactly blame the wonderful flowers and statues. It wasn't their fault they'd been shipped in only to be left alone and forgotten. And she couldn't even blame Malfoy for any of it, either, which was even worse.

She wondered if anyone had just stepped out here and looked, and wondered to themselves why it didn't feel so cheery as it was meant to be. Or did wealthy, hateful, vain people just never ask those sorts of questions – or never bothered to notice? It was pitiful.

The butler knocked with his right hand, three loud and adamant raps against the wood. For a moment there wasn't a sound, just the sound of the falling rain and gentle _tinks_ it made on the expensive lawn decorations, then the door opened, revealing two slightly pale and gangly men in black coats. They wearily eyed Hermione before nodding, stepping out of the way to let them step into the house. Hermione then watched them as they shot glances at the sight of a moistened Harry Potter stepping into the Malfoy Manor. They seemed enamored with his presence alone and she couldn't help but suppress a grin at that. Harry'd been out of sight in the wizarding world for the past year, causing the tabloids and papers to come up with all sorts of strange stories before boredom struck due to idle response, and she was glad to see that there were still some who didn't believe any of that rubbish. She saw great respect shining in their eyes.

As she looked on, she already could not deny the rigid wealth of the house. The shining floors that gleamed so immaculately underneath their feet, the scent of lilies and extravagant lavenders with a hint of vanilla that seemed a tad too cold, the chandeliers that sparkled like starry diamonds through the light and the antique everythings that they passed by. Hermione clutched her palm tightly to keep from gaping, the constant pinch on her skin a reminder that she was not to get carried away by the frigid beauty of this house. This house was a house of _nothing_. She had to remember that. Still, she could not help but feel that twinge in her chest, imagining were someone else to own that Japanese vase with the gold and pink blossoms emblazoned on the porcelain. Someone else who would appreciate it and admire it every day and polish it himself – not someone who just shoved it out into a corridor and made house-elves do it. It was all so cruelly unfair as she looked at every expensive trinket they were forced to gawk at. Each time she passed another she felt her face creasing with dissatisfaction.

She was well aware of how massive the manor was. The butler was chippering away again with historical facts (she wondered if he actually found all this out himself or he'd been forced to read up on it – like a tour guide). Hermione didn't care enough to listen. She didn't want to be any more astounded with this empty, cold mansion than she was about that seventy-five year old vendor with the three lip rings who sold handbags on the corner of their street.

They were led into the drawing room, a large room with even more sparkling curios and the like, and were asked to wait there. Hermione and Harry sat down together on a settee, feeling the _very_ comfortable cushions molding to the contour of their bodies beneath them, yet Hermione sat as stiff as a stick. She eyed the fresh vase of lilies as the centerpiece, her mouth still tightly pressed together. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she knew it was Harry trying to comfort her, but she simply shrugged it off. She had a bad feeling about tonight. And maybe she was only being biased (could anyone blame her? It was bloody easy to be _biased_ when it came to _Draco Malfoy_!) but she could feel it in her skin, creeping up her veins like a shot of something toxic and terrible. Just sitting here in this massive room, crisp with the smell of money, having sentient paintings in dazzling gold frames gawk at her, all felt like a very, very bad dream. And she was just hoping that in those moments it took for the butler to fetch Malfoy she would suddenly wake up and cry with happiness because _Draco Malfoy was dead to her_. And he couldn't ever come back to haunt her – not ever, because she'd packed him away. Every tendril and smirk. Each one.

Just as she was beginning to lapse into one of her mental states again (she was imagining that glorious self-defining moment when she'd broken his nose so happily with her fist), a figure strode in and her eyes flickered up from her unfocused attention on the lilies. And her lips responded as soon as she took in the sight of him in his fancy yet nonchalant clothes, moistly compacting against the other until they disappeared almost completely. She could taste the chapstick she had applied earlier (she wasn't a big fan of lipstick – she hated the taste). Harry stood up and Hermione, who took a moment, did too, although she had no reason to. She knew it was a sign of respect but this was absolute rubbish – _respect_? For _Malfoy_?

_Hah_!

He looked at them coolly, though he was not exactly at the same level Hermione was. She could've grown instant icicles from her eyes from the look she was sending him. Yet he still managed his indifference, as well as the I'm-still-better-than-you-no-matter-how-much-time-we-have-to-spend-together twitchy scowl simmering behind his magnificent features and pale unblemished skin. Suddenly, Hermione had a feeling that it was at that instant, upon their meeting, that they felt the full combat of tension and bottled hatred. The room had had to at least plunge down a few degrees in temperature and their mutual hostility felt just like the valuables he showcased: golden, antique and heart stopping, in a sense. There was a silent, fierce moment when all they did was look at each other, as if it was a warning that couldn't be spoken with words, and Hermione appreciated it. It meant that no coziness was going to be happening here. She could deal with that.

"Granger, Potter," he greeted them in his rich drawl.

"Malfoy," Harry said just as coldly.

"Follow me into the dining hall," he told them, his eyes flickering to Hermione, before turning around and leading them. Harry followed after him first, then Hermione, who reluctantly took a breath before walking down to the grand Malfoy dining hall. She distracted herself by looking at the paintings they passed, some vaguely familiar from all of those art books she'd borrowed every now and then, and some just very elegantly odd. A lot of them were men in cloaks and even uniform with shiny and sleek pale blond hair just like Draco's. They all had upturned noses with their backs straight and icy eyes that leered at her. She noticed that each of the men in the paintings drew their swords and wands when Harry and she passed, and she couldn't say she really minded. For all she knew, they could even smell Muggle blood from within their canvas walls.

It was only a few moments later that she noticed a man following them. She glanced behind her and saw that it was just one of the Ministry people. He had a sallow, stern face and a thin black mustache. He nodded at her with a firm face before she turned back.

There were attendants waiting beside the walls when they finally arrived at the dining hall. It was magnificent in size and manner, unsurprisingly (and disgustingly) rich like all the others, sporting silverware and plates that flashed in the light. It was a long table fit enough to seat fifteen people but Hermione was disturbed to see that he had chosen to seat them each very close. Hermione had to take the place on the other side of Malfoy and Harry across from her. The people on the walls glided up and pulled out their chairs for them and they all got in, both Hermione and Harry fitting weird looks on their faces (they were perfectly capable of pulling out their own seats, thanks), and sat down. Instantly their sparkling goblets filled up with whatever they desired – for Harry some pumpkin juice, for Hermione water, and for Malfoy… well, Hermione was too busy snubbing him to try and notice.

"I believe in a few minutes we will be expecting another guest to be joining us for supper," Draco Malfoy said, imperiously speaking up first. The attendants filed out of the room.

Harry and Hermione looked up, bewildered.

"What do you mean? I thought it was just us," Harry said. "I swear, Malfoy, if you're trying to pull something on us –"

He was sneering at him. "Wouldn't dream of it, Potter," he said, almost spitting it. "But I think you'll be pleased to see who it is. You two _are_ quite familiar, if I can recall correctly."

Hermione was looking at Draco with a suspicious scowl, as well. She kept getting flickers in her head of Lucius Malfoy striding in, or Peter Pettigrew, or one of the Death Eaters. And it seemed that Malfoy had somehow managed to read her mind, or just cleverly figured so from her disturbed face, because he then turned to her and went:

"Don't look so mistrustful, Granger."

Hermione's hands clenched underneath the table. She'd almost wanted to lunge at him and strangle his neck. "One can't help it if in the company of scum," she coldly said back while Draco only raised his brows at her.

"Hermione," Harry then warningly said, looking at both her and Malfoy with a stern look. "Let's try and be civilized about this. We're adults. Dumbledore trusted us enough to have a courteous discussion about how things are going, and we shouldn't let our personal past interfere with what has to get done. Let's stick to what matters right now, all right?"

Hermione felt a sting of pain.

Ouch.

Their food then appeared before their eyes, hot and steamy. Mouth-watering and seductive aromas pervaded the room, making both Harry and Hermione ease a little in their chairs, staring at their plates. They didn't know _what_ it was – probably something gourmet – but it just smelt so damn good. Though as everyone else began to eat, Hermione only took a forkful (of _heaven_) and was too doubtful of its exquisite taste. She only took small bites no matter how much her stomach and throat urged for more, inspecting it while moving it around with her fork, looking for any trace of poison she was almost certain had been put in. She drank her water slowly, trying to figure out if it tasted a bit funny, but then couldn't exactly remember how water was supposed to taste like.

It'd only been a few minutes when a man walked into the room, and all three of them – who had been engulfed in a rigid silence and soaked in skeptical looks – looked up to see a familiar face smiling at them.

"Lupin!" Harry exclaimed, as surprised as he was incredibly happy. He stood up and the two men embraced in a hearty hug, Remus Lupin slapping him on the back, before they let go and Remus took in the rest of the company. He looked at Hermione and nodded to her and she shakily smiled, trying to hide her surprise. He gave Malfoy a nod just the same as he did Hermione, showing no extra hostility or awkwardness, and Draco nodded back.

"Well, it's good to see you here," Lupin said, his eyes twinkling happily. He looked as if he'd lost weight and his skin did seem a whole lot paler, but it was easily overlooked by the wide grin he had on his face. "And not in bloody messes on the floor, might I add," he joked, winking. "Now, where shall I sit? I'm starving and just the smell of what you're having is making my stomach roar."

Once he was seated down beside Hermione, she watched their old professor from the corner of her eye as he ate; thinking about how odd it was that Remus Lupin was here. It seemed too much of a surprise, and while he _was_ a prominent part of the Order, it all just seemed… _iffy_, she reckoned. And she kept glancing at Harry to see if he thought the same thing, and then from Malfoy to Lupin to see if they were cooking up something that both she and Harry had no clue about. But her efforts remained futile because in the moments she was looking at Malfoy, he'd caught her, and she'd had to look away very quickly.

She could see from the corner of her eye as his gaze lingered on her, looking at her before down at her plate, and heard him as he sighed impatiently.

"I wouldn't go as low as poisoning your food, you know," he told her, a bit on the snappy side. "It was especially made for you, you might as well eat it. The house-elves would be insulted if you didn't."

She was about to say that she'd rather die than defile herself with his fancy shmancy food and that he ought to choke on his own bile because he was an elf-enslaver, making them clean his entire sodding house and making them cook special meals for people who didn't even want _to be here. _But instead she only scowled at him, putting down her fork, despite the riotous squirms setting her stomach in knots. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. "I'm not hungry," she stubbornly said.

Draco was giving her a look. "Suit yourself, Granger," he merely said before she turned away, staring at her reflection from the shiny polish of her silver goblet. Her face appeared distorted to her. Her skin looked pale and her eyes droopy and her mouth pressed into a very bent frown. Finally, sick of looking at herself, she grabbed the napkin from her lap and placed it in front of the goblet so that she wouldn't see her reflection anymore.

"So, Dumbledore informed me that you three got off to a rough start," said Lupin, smiling, yet his voice was serious. "Also told me that there'd been some fist-making involved. I wasn't surprised at that, but I _was_ surprised at _who_ did the fist-making." Hermione lowered her eyes as she felt everyone's gazes travel to her. Remus Lupin began to chuckle beside her. "I always knew you had it in you, Hermione," he told her, smiling heartedly. "An admirable move, indeed" – she heard a disagreeing snort to the right of her – "but breaking a bloke's nose in front of two dozen children isn't the most… _mature_ thing you could have done. Just a thought."

But before Hermione could interject exactly what was on her mind, Harry had gone and changed the subject.

"Not to be rude or anything, Remus, but what exactly are you doing here?" Harry asked, curiosity in his voice. "Dumbledore told us that it'd only be the three of us—"

"Not exactly," Lupin replied. "But he owled me at the last minute and asked me to come along."

"For what?" Hermione scoffed, though she hadn't meant to. Immediately she caught herself and swallowed, calming down. "Intervention?"

He grinned as he chewed. "Perhaps. But don't be fooled. I have a very important role to play in this whole thing, as well. You two have been caught up, I suspect? I told the Order and Albus to get you involved as quickly as possible, but they wanted to delay it because you'd just gotten settled after Hogwarts. They didn't want to pester you until the time was right. But I am rather shocked to see that Ronald isn't here…"

Harry spoke instantly, his voice unquestionably staid. "We don't plan on getting him involved," he said firmly, his green eyes darkening in its color. "Me and Hermione are enough. More than enough, actually," he muttered, glancing at Hermione, who sent him a sad look. "But please don't go telling Ron –"

Remus put his hand up. "Wouldn't dream of it. It's your decision, Harry. We can't tell you who to bring along and who you can't. That is all you. But, you should know," he said, hesitating, just looking at Harry. "You can't fight him alone. I mean, ultimately, you _will_ have to… but don't start pushing people away when you're still ways away from that moment. You're going to be needing all the help you can get." He took a bite. "Especially now."

"What do you mean 'Especially now'?" Hermione cut in with a tangent of rolling urgency. She fisted her hands against her dress, suddenly feeling a shiver of fear ripple through her chest.

Suddenly, Remus looked weary. "I just mean," he tried to explain, quietly, "that this past year the Dark Lord has been quiet. Too quiet. Ever since the Death Eaters disappeared… we've been suspicious. The Dark Lord hasn't called any meetings for the past year. Severus and Albus have been gnawing at their quills. They fear he's got something big up his sleeve. Either that, or he's suspecting betrayal from one of his followers. And that," he said, leaning back in his chair and sighing, "we all know, is a very bad thing."

"You mean… he could be calling any one of them, any moment now, to prove their loyalty to him?" said Harry.

Remus solemnly nodded. "That's an idea."

"Has… Snape, has he had any—"

"No, he hasn't," Lupin replied. "And it's worrying everyone. The Order's been trying to get more spies and scouts to try and locate the Dark Lord, perhaps try to get at least a notion of what he's planning. . . ."

"But what if he isn't planning anything?" Hermione asked, hopeful. "What if he's just… tired?"

"That's a laugh," snorted Draco Malfoy, which surprised the three of them. For a while, because they'd been so engrossed in their conversation, they'd forgotten he was there. They all looked at him with quirked brows, except Hermione, who had already taken to glaring at him. "_Very_ unlikely, Granger. The Dark Lord never rests. He never sleeps. He's always planning someone's demise. If it's not Harry Potter then it's somebody close to Harry Potter," he said matter-of-factly. "And he's getting impatient. It's the best thought we have – him planning something massive – because it hardly takes the Dark Lord longer than a year to try something on Potter," he said, steadily looking at Harry.

Remus was nodding. "Absolutely right," he said. "If you remember, Harry, all of your years at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord has tried at least once each time to bring you closer to him – to kill you. So he's been uncharacteristically quiet, as well as the Death Eaters. Usually they'd have had a few attacks by now, and it would give us some sort of lead… but so far there's been nothing. Nothing at all."

"So… that's all you think? That he's planning something big?" asked Harry. "No problem then. I'll just be on my guard –"

"Your scar, Harry," interrupted Remus. "It hasn't been hurting, has it?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Not at all for the past year."

Remus had a contemplative face on, though he seemed worried, anxious, and distressed all at the same time. "Hm. This is odd. Very odd."

"So… what do you suggest we do?" Hermione asked, feeling the aridity of her throat. "I mean, is there anything we _can_ do?"

"Nothing, except to watch out for yourselves. Don't go out too much, especially alone – both in the Muggle and wizarding world. Don't befriend any odd faces and be on your guard _even_ when you are around your familiars. The Dark Lord's already used the Polyjuice potion, yes, but remember that he _succeeded_ in getting you there. It's one idea you shouldn't be too skeptical of. Around this time, it's hard to think of all the ways he can attack, and may even result in lapses into paranoia… but just be alert. That's the most important thing right now. To be alert. And, watch out for Ron, too," he said, looking at both Harry and Hermione. "Be sure to be in touch with him. Don't shove him out of the circle just yet – for all we know, the Dark Lord could be building his plan around him. _Any_ of the people who are important to you, Harry," Remus said gravely, "could be in danger."

They succumbed into a frozen silence. Remus was looking at Harry, and so was Hermione, yet all she wanted to do was avert her eyes elsewhere, in shame. She couldn't help but hate Remus a little for bringing that up – saying it in _that_ way, as if Harry didn't already think about it too much, or avoid trying to get anyone else involved. Wasn't it enough that they'd moved out to the Muggle world to try and have distance from everyone – to keep them safe? Wasn't it enough that they'd had to take second-rate jobs that rarely ever satisfied them? Wasn't it enough that they were willing to sacrifice every aspect in their life just for _everyone else's safety_?

Hermione didn't understand why Lupin had to tell him. Harry knew perfectly well what was at risk, and so why did he have to bring it to the table, in front of her – in front of _Malfoy_, for heaven's sakes! She couldn't even bear to look at the tiny vessels in his eyes that darkened with profound guilt, or the way his jaw tightened. She just sort of wanted this conversation to end. To be out of Draco Malfoy's presence, out of his house, out of his territory.

"Well, I'm certain Potter knows that already," came Draco Malfoy's nonchalant drawl, and she stiffened, wanting to slap him. "It's his birthright."

Hermione's head snapped over to his direction, her eyes glinting with annoyance. "Oh, don't be an insensitive git," she hissed. "We came here to talk about what needs to be talked about, not to waste our time stating the obvious. Yes, Harry _knows_ that already – but there's no reason for any of you to be rubbing it in his face, all right?"

Remus's face softened. "Hermione, I didn't mean—"

"She's right," said Harry. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell us, Remus? What about you, Malfoy? We know all about the inactiveness of the Death Eaters, but is there anything else? What about your father? How's he doing in Azkaban?"

Draco stiffened, and Hermione looked over at Harry with wide eyes. She didn't say anything; although she did get the brutal feeling that Harry hadn't meant it to be a sincere question at all but rather much like a slap in the face. She looked at the two boys glaring at each other, then at Remus, silently pleading for help, but found that he was intently watching the silent interaction between the two.

His upper lip curled. "Very funny that you mention my father, Potter, because it turns out that we've got another visitor tonight."

Hermione froze, and so did Harry. They looked at him, shocked, almost afraid of what he'd meant by that. She felt as if he'd just punched her in the gut and sent her stomach reeling the other way.

"What are you saying?" Harry said lowly, and Hermione found herself holding her breath.

"What Draco's saying is," Remus said seriously, stepping in, "is that we've all got a little surprise for you tonight. Now, you'll be shocked and overwhelmed, but please, refrain from sending any hexes and curses – just be calm and everything will be all right –"

Both Harry and Hermione stood up, alarmed.

"What's going on?" she asked, her head churning in sickening circles and her heart bashing against her ribs. She'd barely eaten anything but she felt as if she was going to be sick. She looked from Draco to Lupin – she couldn't figure it out fast enough, and her head was drowning in her sudden panic. She was beginning to breathe erratically. "Malfoy – Lupin –"

"Just relax," Draco Malfoy said.

Just then, Harry Potter drew his wand, and she heard Draco Malfoy yelling out Lupin's name.

"_Expelliarmus_!" shouted Remus, and Harry's wand flew all the way across the room. Hermione drew her wand as well, but Draco disarmed her and sent her wand tackling through the air, hitting the wall. She then watched in horror as Remus Lupin began chanting a few spells at once – a silence shield that made the room shimmer, and another charm that caused all of the doors to close and lock. Harry was yelling something, but her ears had been engulfed by something louder and more boisterous, drowning him out. All she could see were the calm faces of Draco Malfoy and Remus Lupin.

Then, suddenly, the lights flickered. They were in darkness for a mere second before the lights turned on again, slowly.

"What's going on?" Hermione breathed, frightened.

"Hermione, on my count, we're going to Apparate—" Harry began to say, but Remus held up his hand, stopping him.

"Just wait, Harry. It isn't what you think."

"And why should I believe you?" Harry Potter shouted.

Then something moved. In a single spare moment, so fast that Hermione couldn't even recall it without it all being a vague and frightening blur, someone strode out, a dark figure, and the lights flickered again. She sucked in a breath, afraid to move, her eyes wide and her heart in her throat, as the lights revealed someone else in the room.

"Because," Lucius Malfoy said, smirking. "Because he's right."

"Just relax," Remus repeated to them. "Just relax."

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Looong chapter. Yes, so Senior Malfoy's back for a bit of the fun. But remember that he's not really Lucius Malfoy, but _Narcissa_ Malfoy in Polyjuice? **Nevertheless, please review to your heart's desire**! Don't let ol' Lucius scare ya. (wink) 


	5. Say What?

If It Was You

**A/N:** Sorry for the hideously long time before this update… uh, had some difficulties, but I assure you that it won't take that long anymore. Hopefully. Sorry you folks are getting a bit annoyed by the whole Dodging and Whining Hater!Hermione thing going on, but I do hope that you will find it in your heart just to skim through those parts and continue reading. It'll lighten up soon, I promise. Oh, and for the time being, this chapter is unbeta'd, just until my beta gets the chapter to me, and then I'll post that up. So, apologies for any mistakes.

I dedicate this chapter to **Sandra Louise **and **Eve Barcelona** who are dysfunctional in every possible way.

**Say What?**

In all honesty, the words "Just Relax" weren't exactly what one could call quite _possible_ in this situation. It was a rather barmy and mad thing to say when a cold-blooded murderer and living, breathing, walking hair faux-pas had just pranced in the room – or, quite literally, just appeared out of nowhere (yes, it did seem as if the Malfoy males had a talent for that) – and nearly petrified the wits out of her. If she hadn't already been preoccupied with trying to keep her jaw off the floor (it didn't work) and trying to make sure that she hadn't died from shock and fright, she would've leapt back into her place setting at the table, snatched the fancy steak knife, and threatened to slit the throat of one Remus Lupin for saying such two preposterous, inconceivable words.

Hermione herself found that she couldn't think straight, which was another fright all in itself, and couldn't even remember how to properly Apparate. But there was just something iffy about this ghastly situation of Peek-the-sodding-Boo! that ground her heels into the floor, and no matter how many times she tried to get the oxygen circulating to her brain again like it was bloody supposed to, there was just something that prevented her from getting out of here.

She was sure, from the lack of feeling in her face and the instant icy chills that ominously trickled down her spine, that her face had gone white with the obvious mix of dread, horror, terror, and anything else one could name that would possibly result in a surprise visit from the Devil himself – Lucius Malfoy. Her mouth had dried out and suddenly her throat had contracted into arid, twisted knots that prevented any vocal defiance and/or rage that would have been typical in this circumstance. She even sort of forgot about the silverware and the possible damage they could inflict in the hands of a madwoman and the fact that she had worn shoes with rather flat heels that were easy to run in.

She felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, and she was thrown out of her trance, looking down at the five pale fingers with five protruding white knuckles gripping onto her bare shoulder. She looked back up, her eyes wide with fright and confusion and beginning to blossom with rage. The hand belonged to their ex-professor. Lupin.

There was something on his face that made Hermione's stomach turn. His face was kind and apologetic and even beseeching her in a way that was most evident that she began to become reluctant about everything. Was this some sort of trick? Was Lupin turning them over to – No, he couldn't be. Lupin? _Remus_ Lupin? Remus who was Sirius Black's best mate and who had helped him escape from Azkaban? Was he – had he – how did the Dark Lord – but it just wasn't possible at all – Harry trusted him with his life –

Hermione's head was spinning in a painful circle. She felt as if someone had just shot a cannonball straight through her chest, leaving a gaping, empty hole of gore and guts dripping out. She looked from one to the other, almost shaking at the sight of Lucius Malfoy's face scowling at her with hate burning in his eyes, and then to Harry, who merely looked enraged. He, too, was looking from Remus to Lucius. Draco Malfoy was completely forgotten.

She stepped back, jerking away from his hand. "No," she said, her voice cracking and her anger dawning like a fierce sun on her face. "Stay away from me." She continued to back away.

Remus sighed. "It isn't what you think, Hermione, Harry," he said. "But for us to explain you're going to need to stay put—"

"_We'll_ decide if we need to stay put, thanks," Harry spat, his emerald eyes frigid and glinting. "So what is it, then? What's your explanation? What are you going to do next – have Pettigrew jump out from under the table? Voldemort" – Hermione cringed – "leap down from the ceiling?" His voice was forced and Hermione could hear that he was very well on the edge of his temper. "What's your explanation, _Lupin_?"

"You'd do well not to speak to your former professor like that," came the drawl of serpent-tongued Lucius Malfoy, and Hermione felt something jump in her chest, frozen, yet boiling with revulsion. She felt shivers race across her skin as she watched with narrowed eyes as he stared at Harry, his face still as severely carved as ever, as he took a step forward. Nobody else moved. "Ever heard of respect, Potter?" he leered. "Thought at least they taught you that at Hogwarts. Seems to me as if the discipline policy there's been neglected then." He tsked but looked straight at him with a disdainful glare.

"You're one to talk," Harry raged. "Look at your own son – arrogant and as vile as a rat's arse!"

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Cut it out, Mother, enough with the theatrics if you're only going to encourage him to yell out outdated comebacks," he sneered, and both Hermione and Harry stiffened.

Their heads whipped over in his direction. "_What_ did you say?" both Harry and Hermione asked, baffled.

"Now, Draco," said Lucius Malfoy, and the pair of them scrunched their faces down in even more confusion. There was definitely something bizarre going on with Draco's father. First, there was just something oddly uncanny about the way he spoke now… as if there was even a bit of finesse in it, a regality that seemed more… _womanly_ than masculine. Hermione blinked at him and wondered if she'd gotten water in her ears from the rain or something.

"Wanted to test it out. Turns out I can fool even Potter. That's good, isn't it?" His twitchy lips quirked into a very familiar smirk, and Hermione felt sick watching that very same smirk that she knew had been echoed by Draco one too many times.

Yet, there was something different about it. It wasn't the usual Lucius smirk – full of ill-knowing and snarling contempt. It was just… _knowing_. There didn't even seem to be anything ill _meaning_ about it at all, if Hermione could just bat away the growth of hatred coiling up right against her ribs and throat and see it for just what it was.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" asked Harry. "Is this some sort of-of _joke_?"

"No," Remus answered. "No, it isn't a joke. It's just that we're revealing one of our secrets to you now. So it's quite the opposite, really. You see, Harry… over the past year, you've been made to believe that Lucius Malfoy had been sent to Azkaban." He paused, as if trying to choose his words wisely. "And while that may have been indeed true, the Order had a different idea in mind. See, Harry, Lucius Malfoy's dead. He has been. For over a year now. From the start of your seventh year, he's been dead. He still is dead, as a matter of fact, which brings me onto this: this person, standing right in front of you, is not Lucius Malfoy," he said, gesturing to Lucius Malfoy, who really _wasn't_ Lucius Malfoy after all. Or so he said. "We've been using a highly advanced sort of Polyjuice Potion to keep it perpetually convincing. We haven't got room for errors – even the littlest blunder could cost us our lives." He looked sad as he said this. "Or, worse: yours."

"So, wait, hold on one bleeding second," Harry said, still trying to get a grip on what was happening, "so _that's_ not Lucius Malfoy? Then-then _who_ _is it_?"

Both Harry and Hermione, immensely confused and surprised yet curious as curious could ever be, stared at Lucius Malfoy, who, in fact, wasn't Lucius Malfoy at all. There was a dense mix of fear and anticipation in the air that they sucked into their lungs.

"Well, I was going to wait until the potion wore off, but I suppose this time's as good as any," said the person who they weren't exactly sure about anymore. He cleared his throat, and then proceeded to do something that catastrophically disturbed everyone in the room – even Draco Malfoy had clapped his hand on his forehead at the ridiculous scene: manly, vicious, and scornful Lucius Malfoy trying to curtsey to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

His face shone so beatifically – it still twitched a bit from the efforts, though – that Hermione gasped out of shock and mild fear.

"Mister Potter, Miss Granger," he said. Then something strange began to happen – there was a sudden wave of light, almost very faint, and within seconds, the harshness of Senior Malfoy's face had started to surreally ripple against his pale skin, before seeming to melt right off, disappearing into thin air. His square and locked jaw soundlessly curved inwards into a more dainty one, scowling lips shrinking into thin crimson ones, and fierce stone-colored eyes flickered into a stunning ice-blue pair. Granted, they'd all seen how she looked before, but the mere painless transition (totally different from Hermione's own experience with Polyjuice) that occurred right before their eyes made it all the more spectacular, somehow. Then the robes sunk, like a deflating parachute, swallowing her slender and fragile frame by the yards of expensive silk and thick fabric. The hair became finer and loosened, as if shaken up, delicately framing her face.

It was beyond words. There stood before them now, a gorgeous woman (who, to be quite frank, still radiated that Malfoy coldness they were all known for) trying her best to look welcoming and friendly, a vast difference from what she had been before. She was attempting, at least, and she really didn't look half bad doing it.

"Sorry about that," she said. "But, just as I was saying, my name is Narcissa Malfoy. It's an honor to be serving you."

Draco Malfoy scoffed.

Hermione's jaw dropped open. "_What_?"

Because, seriously. What the _hell_?

"Yes, well, it is quite a bit to take in," Remus reassured them. "And we do apologize for keeping it a secret for so long, but it was for your safety, you have to understand. You wouldn't believe how unsure we were about your last year, Harry. We all thought that the Dark Lord was going to attack one final time – and that was it. It would be the battle to end all battles. And when he didn't… we got worried. We had to try and keep you safe for as long as we could until we found out what he was up to. Just in case."

Harry still had that hitch on one of his eyebrows that indicated that he still wasn't getting all of it just yet. His lips were tightly pressed together, staring at Narcissa Malfoy with a dark look in his eyes. He seemed uncertain whether to trust this new piece of information. Hermione couldn't exactly blame him – although that horrible bubbling in her lungs and muggy crowding in her head wasn't entirely caused by the suspicion of Narcissa Malfoy playing her husband's part for the good side. She couldn't say, exactly – just that she kept getting flashbacks of when Lucius Malfoy had walked in on her and Draco snogging, back in their seventh year.

So that had been _Narcissa_, too?

"Is this the truth?" Harry asked stoically, his face stony and grave. He then turned to Remus. "Is this really the truth?"

"I'd swear all my human days, Harry," Lupin answered. "This is the truth."

"But who… who killed him? Lucius? Why hasn't Voldemort—"

"I killed him," Narcissa said silkily. Her voice was soothing yet enticing at the same time – she held her chin high, exposing her long, swan-like neck, and her voice rolled and moved like velvet. It was an astounding thing to hear such a beautiful accent on a statement like that, admitting to murdering her husband. Yet there was still sophistication in it. It certainly was odd. "Exactly two years and four months ago. My son, Draco, had a part in it, too. Now, about the Dark Lord. . . ."

But then, to Hermione, everything had stopped making sense.

For a reason unfathomable to her, Hermione felt her eyes began to sting. Her hands fisted and she felt her clipped nails digging into her palm, her teeth locked tight. There was a burning sensation in her gaze and chest as she continued to stare at Narcissa Malfoy, and then looked at her son just paces behind Harry. He was staring at the floor. And Hermione, for the first time since he had come barreling into her life again, felt like running over to him and accosting him, yelling at him to look her straight in the eye. Just so she could see if he felt even the least bit guilty about lying to her all this time. Oh, Merlin – all of the _lies_ he'd told her! And he practically handfed her all of it! _How_ could she have been such a _fool_? Had she _wanted_ to believe it all so badly that she'd lost sight of reality – that he _was_ a liar, just like his father?

She felt sadness, humiliation, and rage gurgling upwards, instilling the desire inside her to start heaving up the clumps of acidic heat she felt filling her lungs and the sharp stones puncturing the hollow pit her stomach. She couldn't breathe normally anymore. And she wanted to get over it – quickly, oh so quickly. She didn't want to be like this, beginning to cry like some selfish, pathetic sod when things were finally beginning to trickle out of the Tap of Truth. This was important – yes, it was, and she had to hear all of this so she could help Harry. It was her job to nitpick and observe all the little things; her finical nature was what made her bothersome yet undeniably valuable. Yet she still couldn't rightly compose herself the way she wanted. There was just something so terrible and hurtful, like hooks that had snagged onto her skin, about hearing about another lie he had succeeded in telling her, and that she had believed.

And the worst part was that it made her remember. It was like one of those moments that came like a brick hurled against her forehead. She _hated_ remembering things she had already tucked away. There was a _reason_ she'd tucked them all away, and that was because she didn't want to recall them, ever again. So how was it that life, or fate – or whatever it bloody was – couldn't understand that simple notion? That she had to sit here and take it all, all the lies and the _shit_ and all of the Draco Malfoys, while the one thing she asked to be spared of, this one little thing – still could not be comprehended? It just wasn't fair. It just wasn't.

Since it didn't seem as if she was going to be able to mop up the emotional wreckage inside of her any time within the next minute or so, she knew that she had to do something to prevent an emotional breakdown from occurring. They didn't need this. Harry was confronting something important and he didn't need to be pestered by some overemotional bint.

"Right," she suddenly said, her voice coarse. Everyone looked at her and that was when she realized she had cut someone off. She didn't really care, though, because as far as she was concerned they were all arseholes. Except maybe Harry. "I'll be back. I just need to – to use the loo."

"Oh," said Narcissa Malfoy, and Hermione felt nervous yet still shuddering with rage underneath her blunt stare. "Well, it's right down the corridor, and you just take a left and then you should see another corridor and just go straight down—"

"Yeah," said Hermione absentmindedly, nodding her head, determined to get out of the stuffy, and slowly shrinking room. She walked away from the crowd, tensing her jaw as she felt Draco Malfoy's gaze following her, wanting to gouge his eyes out, and stopping by the wall to pick up her wand before unlocking the door herself and exiting.

She didn't go to the loo. That should've been obvious, though, since judging from the directions Mrs. Malfoy had given her she wouldn't have made it in time. Instead she walked down a different corridor, a lit up one that was void of any leering Malfoy paintings, picked out a door, opened it, and went inside. Now, she knew it wasn't exactly the nicest thing to do to be barging in rooms in other people's houses, but she couldn't even feel the slightest bit guilty about it. She was just so _angry_ and hateful and – frustrated. Lord knows why. She just was. She couldn't bear standing in the same room as him anymore, that stupid, _lying_ snake. Besides, it wasn't as if she was going to go and pull a Lucy around here. Was that some sort of _joke_? Instead of lovely, snowy Narnia the Malfoys probably had the several levels of hell hiding beyond their wardrobes.

Demented these people were.

There were dim lights in the room. It was massive, just like everything else in the manor, and it seemed to be some sort of office. There was a desk and a huge shelf of books against the wall, all antique looking; yet it looked as if it hadn't been sat in for ages. There was a balcony, though, Hermione soon discovered. Immediately her attention was drawn to it – the flowing white curtains that appeared to flutter a bit despite the unventilated disposition of the room. Suddenly there was a bit of a breeze and she shivered as she felt it on her skin before heading towards it, walking around the desk. She searched her hands underneath the curtain before she finally grasped a metal knob. She twisted it and the door gave way, leading her out on one of the manor's many terraces.

She stepped out and immediately gave into the refreshing conditions of the night. It had stopped raining and had left behind the lingering musk of rain, the sort that always sticks around even long after a shower, and felt it soothingly shimmy in and out of her lungs as she inhaled deeply, trying to extinguish the blistering knot at the bottom of her throat with an incursion of fresh air. She looked out and released her jaw, feeling it quiver a little, sniffing silently. She crossed her arms tightly against her chest and welcomed the chill of evenings in Great Britain; they chased away the traces of the cobwebs from her past that had somehow latched onto her the very moment she had entered this place.

A change of scenery. Sometimes it was all people needed to compose themselves. And she had certainly hit the jackpot in that area, all right, as she looked out at the full view of acres and acres of land and the abundant, velvet night sky sprinkled with several cloudy stars. Sure, it wasn't exactly the sort of thing people would photograph with their best cameras and others would ooh and ahh at, dazzled by its beauty, but it wasn't the attendance of the stars that made it beautiful. It was beautiful simply because it just was. And it was a hell of a sight to see after seeing what she'd just seen, hearing what she'd just heard, being where she had just been. (In a room full of lying jerks, if you remember.) Anywhere was better than being in there.

She merely stared out. She didn't bother to try and count the stars or anything, for just as tingles flew across her skin like passing birds against a horizon she felt her mind buzzing with grave thoughts. And not all of them were fantastic, mind you. Actually, very few of them were. Her brown eyes glinted darkly as she was able to breathe shallow, _normal_ breaths again. She was clutching her wand determinedly for the feel of wood against her skin always strangely comforted her and stood there for a few minutes, thinking everything at once, like a whizzing influx of memories and tales and things that would (most definitely) take a big toll on a person already secretly traumatized by it. She would have screamed, just because there were a few moments in life where a woman just has to scream it all out in an attempt to make it all better somehow, but she didn't. Instead she stayed silent. Gritting her teeth, her dazed stare turning into a spiteful glare at the luxurious eventide sky.

She could rightly imagine herself stomping back to the dining area and harming Draco Malfoy in some massive, important way (like monumentally kicking his arse), but it was all blurred now. Her rage rooted from the thought of him had pooled beyond its limits and could no longer be measured at an exact scale. She wanted to yell at him but she didn't want to be anywhere near him. Wanted him to look her in the eye but didn't want to even catch a glimpse of him. So it had all reached a very ambiguous point now. She wasn't aware if anyone else in the world had ever felt the very same way she was feeling right now – about being sure but unsure about more things – but standing out there on the terrace, she looked down at the Malfoy lawn. The poor, sad sculptures of cherubim angels and Greek Goddesses. All reduced into nothing but empty ornaments.

And all because of a Malfoy.

She sympathized with them.

Shit, they should all just beat him up and get it over with.

Then, suddenly, she heard a very distinct creak of a door. She turned her head, alarmed, her arm tensing just in case she needed to protect herself. She watched from the balcony, the curtains so milky and fluid against the wind as they bordered her sight, as the door slowly opened. Then she stiffened at the sight of a man looking around before relaxing a bit, lowering her wand.

Remus finally noticed the open terrace and gave a faint smile as he noticed Hermione Granger looking at him. He slowly closed the door behind him before heading her way. He stopped right at the edge of the room, right beside the flowing curtains.

"Do you mind if I join you, Hermione?" he politely asked her, smiling, and it was easy to forget the anger she'd just experienced towards him minutes ago. It was then evident to her that he could never betray them. No. Not ever. It was on his face, the way he looked at her then. Like he was sorry he even made them think that.

Hermione shook her head but said nothing, simply turning back to the view. Her heart was beating fast because somehow, just because she was a pathetic girl, all riled up, she thought that it might have been Draco.

From the corner of her eye she watched as her former professor planted himself right beside her, looking out ahead as well.

"Well, this is a beauty, isn't it?" he said lightly. "You can still smell the rain."

She didn't say anything to him and they were quiet for a few minutes. She could feel the awkwardness just as she could smell the lingering after effects of the wet weather, but she really didn't know what to say to him. Not that she was trying too hard trying to figure out what she could, but she just didn't feel like starting up conversation. If he had something to say, then fine. Fine. He could just go right on and say it.

After a few more calm moments, he finally spoke.

"Hermione, do you want to tell me what's… bothering you?" He seemed sincere as he was looking at her now in a concerned sort of way. She was then reminded of how her father would look at her every time she mentioned You-Know-Who. They were almost identical. He licked his lips. "You don't seem too… pleased."

"That would be one way to put it," she said, trying not to snap, yet it still came out a bit sharp-edged. Afterwards she felt a tad abashed because of her tone towards him – he was an adult, after all, and she couldn't go around barking at him whenever she felt like it. Even if she just wanted to bark at _someone_ and he was the only one around. "A nicer way of putting it," she said apologetically, almost in a whisper.

"Can I ask why?" he asked. He asked it like he meant it, too, which caused Hermione to frown at herself. She didn't respond and Remus nodded to himself, knowing exactly what a No Comment meant. He chose his words carefully and came out with the next question: "Are you angry?"

She swallowed hard though it didn't seem to do much good. "No – Yes – No, oh, I don't know," she said, throwing up her hands. "I don't know, Professor Lupin," she said exasperatedly, even though she was quite certain she was so angry she could have blasted Draco Malfoy all the way to Pluto by now. Or farther. To the vast outreaches of the universe, more like. To a place in space where the gravity and atmosphere would cause his head to sink in and come out of his arse.

Hermione felt a smile coming on, but hid it.

Yeah.

"It's possible to feel more than one emotion at once, you know," he said rather humorously with a lighthearted smile trickling out on his face, though Hermione thought the tone was rather incongruent and forced and couldn't share the feeling even if she tried. There was nothing humorous about this situation at all. Except the part where Draco's head comes out of his bum. That was _really_ funny.

"Oh, yes, because being lied to and getting manipulated is a real laugh," she snorted dryly, and she saw his head turn to her with a genuinely intrigued expression. Then his face softened, as if he sympathized with her, which he probably did, because their professor was a good man.

"I won't pry," he told her, "but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't notice the direct hostility between you and young Malfoy. You could have frozen the whole room, you two," he chuckled, the reflecting stars making his dark eyes sparkle. Hermione noticed a fresh gash by his ear. "And so it was clear to me that… something had happened. History, you know, you can tell when it's quite rotten. Not that I had to assume anything, really – from what Albus told me about you punching him (good one, by the way)," he winked heartedly, "it was clear something occurred between you two. I don't believe you're the sort of person to get violent unless forced to. But then I thought, maybe you'd been hanging 'round Ron again, and that certainly made sense."

He smiled good-naturedly.

"You're a good woman, Hermione Granger, but sometimes for the sake of other people you've got to try and play along – even if you don't want to. Learn to hold your tongue, and when all comes to worse, learn how to vent without having to use your fists… or your wand." He sighed, shifting his arms on the balcony. "I had quite the same problem with Harry, you know. So much pent-up anger. You've just got to learn how to control it and let it out without hurting yourself. There's timing, too, of course. Can't go screaming your head off just anywhere. But you understand, don't you? I know Malfoy's a prat but please believe me when I say that he is on our side," he implored, and Hermione felt that twisting in her stomach again.

"May not be the nicest bloke on the whole of Britain, but he and his mother have done so much already. It just wouldn't be fair not to give him a second chance."

Hermione didn't bother telling him that he'd already had his second chance – and only ended up further abusing her to the point that she was now imagining very grotesque (but funny) scenarios of him out in space. The ropes bound around her chest tightened as she felt her temper spark. "I don't believe in second chances," she merely told him, fiercely looking him in the eye. "I believe that your first chance is all you get, and the rest is up to God."

He sighed wearily, looking resigned. "You're a tough broad, you are. I can see what he's going to have to deal with. I almost pity him," he said, frowning.

"You sound as if _I'm_ in the wrong by hating a bad man," she argued, wondering why no one could see it from _her_ side. "What else can you do but hate terribleness? You don't know what happened – you can't possibly understand," she said, scoffing, shaking her head.

"Maybe not," said Remus Lupin softly, looking sadly at her, "but keep in mind that there's always a reason behind a man's action. And that sometimes they aren't the most obvious to the mortal eye." He gave her a reassuring look as she continued to look at him, this time feeling a part of her vulnerably throb from what he had said. She'd wanted to ask him what exactly he'd meant by that – she just needed a bit of clarification – but he'd already spoken on, leaving the topic of Draco in the dust. "I reckon we better be getting back. Harry sent me after you and he's already worried. We can't have them looking for us and discovering that you aren't in the loo after all, now, can we?"

Hermione followed after him, reluctant to leave the terrace (her refuge in this whole mess), yet making sure to close and lock it behind her. But as they exited the office and stepped out into the hall, hearing an indistinct murmuring in the distance and standing out beside the softly flickering lights, he stopped her.

"Now, just a warning," he said, holding her shoulders and peering down at her. "I wouldn't go wandering around here anymore if I were you. So many rooms in this manor. You wouldn't want to see something you'll regret."

And then, letting go of her, he straightened himself up and smiled beatifically.

"Let's get a move-on, shall we? Wouldn't want to miss anything important," he said, before turning around and walking down the corridor.

ooooo

It was still raining in the Muggle world. The cobblestone streets were slick and slippery, and, proving very incompatible to even a pair of Hermione Granger's most comfortable evening shoes, caused her to slip and fall right on her bum. What made it worse? Well, beside the fact that she was already slightly soaked, she'd also managed to land in one unnaturally large puddle that she could have _sworn_ hadn't been there before. Her tailbone hurting from the hard impact and her dress completely drenched in dirty gutter water, she let out a very deep groan of frustration and misfortune. It was very hard to keep calm now. Everything just seemed to go so very wrong… And all in _one_ day! And this dress was _Dry Clean Only_!

Harry managed to help her up and offered his coat to her, but Hermione refused, even when he began to point out the fact that she was shaking so terribly that an innocent bystander would have thought she was having some sort of seizure. He even wanted to perform some spell on her to dry her up, but she only shook her head, freezing her arse off while they walked that one last block to their flat. Now, she didn't exactly know why she seemed to be denying the use of magic these past few days… perhaps because every time she did enact a spell, even the simplest one, like to open a stupid can of creamed corn or the like, she was reminded of Hogwarts. And what had happened at Hogwarts. Mind you, thinking about Hogwarts was supposed to cheer her up because she _loved_ that place. But lately some events had occurred that canceled out a vast amount of those supposedly happy thoughts. Though she did like to think about Draco Malfoy's broken nose, she did not like to think about Draco Malfoy. And one, quite logically, could not have one without the other tagging along with it.

When they finally got to their flat, Hermione went into her room, literally peeled off her dress and kicked off her shoes (quite disdainfully, too) and furiously tried to dry herself up, as if doing an impeccable job of doing so would right the wrongs of this whole night somehow. To be rather frank, she was still in a dazed shock from the happenings at Malfoy Manor. She didn't want to believe it. It was just… well, all this _time_? All this time it'd been _Narcissa_ Malfoy? The _man_ that walked in on them when they were snogging – it hadn't been Lucius _at all_! She'd panicked her little bum off for _nothing – nothing at all_! That entire time that she'd cried her little heart out, worried about _his_ stupid safety – Draco didn't even say a word to her! Couldn't he _trust_ her? Even when they'd been together, he couldn't even muster up the _balls_ about him to tell her even a drip of the truth!

Then again, the thought then occurred to her that maybe he _hadn't_ had any balls in the first place! Yes, that would be probable, wouldn't it?

Hermione, now in her pajamas, her face crumpled in her vicious anger, hastily snatched up one of her shoes and was about to throw it right against her door because she was so furious, but as she gripped it tight, staring hard at the wood as if she could tear it from its hinges with mere brainpower, her shoe stayed firmly clasped against her palm. She stared at the door, breathing hard, feeling clumsily uncoordinated and untamed, for the first time in her life. Then she looked at her shoe, her grasp loosening. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the ground swoon beneath her, the universe spinning around her in a wild whirl. Then she let her shoe, her sad shoe, drop down to the carpet with a muted thud.

She stood there for a while. She didn't know why. It probably would have been logical to sit down, or lie down or something, because obviously she wasn't really in a condition to battle gravity like this. Any other day, sure, but today just wasn't one of the normal sort she was used to having. And so she just planted herself in that spot, perfectly motionless and still, staring ahead. She felt torn between conflicting emotions. Her stomach gurgled sourly with anger and it made her chest violently cave in inside of her, but then she felt that cold lapse of unexpectedness and _unknown_ feeling running through her, as well. She felt exhausted. Could it be possible to become weary of hating someone to the very core? Was it probable that she'd spent up so much energy into being angry with him that now she was just – tired?

"I'm going mad," she finally told herself, her voice detached and far away. Another clear sign that she was, indeed, mentally packing up her bags and going straight away to the loony bin. "And it's all his fault. I'm _letting_ him make me crazy." That sudden realization clicked a light inside her stormy skull, focusing her pupils back to real life again. Then she let out a scoff through her nose full of disgust. "Bastard."

She went to the kitchen and turned on only one of the lights because she didn't like to use up extra energy when it was only her. Especially at night. She was notorious (in her own imaginary world) for her midnight pig-outs. It didn't happen _all_ the time, but enough for her to be notorious for doing it. Usually she did it when she had a lot to think about, and she'd been doing fine, resisting it… until tonight happened. Then it was clear to her that resistance was futile.

She grabbed a bowl and a spoon, plopping the container of strawberry-vanilla ice cream on the counter before skillfully peeling the cover off. She began to scoop ice cream into her bowl, but then realized that doing so was completely pointless and scooped back the ice cream. She dipped in her spoon and ate thoughtfully.

She fancied the thought that ice cream mellowed her out. Harry had tried talking to her when they'd come into the flat, offering to make her some soup (since she hadn't eaten anything the entire evening), but she'd only said nothing and went straight to her room to dry herself up. It wasn't as if Harry could cook soup, anyway. He'd probably only make her one of those one-minute easy to do meals, which was still a cavalier thing to do, she reckoned. She did want to talk to Harry, but she'd been too angry. She was wet, freezing, and had just come back from seeing Draco Malfoy's face again – there wasn't any other applicable reason to _be_ justly angry. So, really, she'd spared him the pain. If he _had_ succeeded in talking to her she most likely would have just answered in shrill yells of how much she hated the Malfoys and their fancy living. And Harry didn't need to hear all that – it was clear he felt the same, too.

Besides, her endless vents about him had reached a boiling point. They had better things to talk about, like what she had heard after Remus had brought her back like she'd been "lost", and she would have only stupidly eclipsed them with her rage.

Still, though.

She shuddered as she angrily chomped down on her ice cream.

The thought then occurred to her that perhaps it wasn't the wisest thing to be eating ice cream on an empty stomach. Hence, she washed those damp thoughts down with more ice cream, savoring the flavor on her tongue and the coldness that tingled down her chest from through her throat. Her taste buds proclaimed frozen desert heaven. Hermione couldn't disagree. It was just a shame, though, that she was still thinking about Draco Malfoy _and_ eating excellent ice cream at the same time, because she also felt a bit nauseous. She wanted to spit it out sometimes because she'd gotten to the point where her rage had succeeded in rearing its ugly head and poking its nose into her eating habits: she was now _chewing_ her ice cream with a vengeance. She hadn't even been aware ice cream _could_ be chewed.

Along with the angry jaw, she had also taken to stabbing her spoon right deep into the container, imagining it was Draco's face, or his chest – or something. How grotesquely lovely it would have been to hear his howl of pain. She tried imagining it and she felt shivers. The kind of shivers when you see a shooting star, or something brilliant. That kind.

She didn't notice when Harry Potter had plodded right out of his room, rubbing his eyes underneath his spectacles, and started walking towards her. She was staring at the odd moisture ring a glass had made on the counter – and remembered how she'd told Harry again and again to try and use a coaster, for heaven's sake. But then she looked up, and he was there, looking at her. His hair was tousled but he didn't look like he'd been sleeping. He sat down in front of her on a stool, the counter separating them, not saying a word. Hermione had stopped eating her ice cream for a bit, just watching him, feeling sort of embarrassed because he'd caught her bingeing.

"It's bad to eat ice cream on an empty stomach, you know," he told her.

"I know," said Hermione, not really caring. "But I don't think the consequences are really all that life-threatening." She inconspicuously licked her spoon, looking at him. Several seconds of silence ticked by.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Nothing.

He looked like he had something on his mind, so it wasn't surprising when he finally asked her, "Do you want to talk?"

"Depends. Do you want to listen while I yell or scream with me?"

He sighed. He seemed exasperated with her, and seeing so, Hermione immediately wanted to drop the subject (she felt incredibly stupid, forcing her situation on like this, as if it mattered – and it did, but only a little) but he went on. "So you are angry, then. I kind of had the feeling… when you said you had to go to the loo." He paused, intently looking at her, as if silently asking if she wanted to verbally confirm anything. "Is it Malfoy again?"

Hermione pursed her lips.

As if he needed to ask. They both already knew he was spot on.

He shrugged. "But I can't figure it out, not really – did he say anything to you to upset you? Or was it—"

"It's nothing," she said, cutting him off, realizing that she really didn't want to tell Harry why she suddenly got angry and had to leave the room before she flew at Draco Malfoy in an attempt to strangle him. Suddenly she remembered all that had happened at the manor – bigger things that were obviously more important than the intense rift between her and that pasty sod. She remembered the look on Remus's face as Narcissa Malfoy explained what they'd been doing over the years and she remembered how Harry, though clearly conflicting with the idea of trusting another Malfoy, was enraptured. She saw those things in her head, things that didn't even concern her anger towards Malfoy, and she felt a gutting sensation in her body. She felt regret, then, guilt that made her put down her spoon and stop eating because of the spasms in her stomach and the shivers matters of importance always gave her. She felt angry with herself for getting so carried away. It was nothing but an insignificant detail and she'd let it eat her up – when she should be consoling Harry, not the other way around.

Goodness, she was a fool.

A few spoonfuls of ice cream and suddenly she'd been plunged into her own sad pity-party.

"It-it isn't important," she said firmly, looking him right in the eye. "But you, Harry… are you all right? I mean, after what they told us today, you must be… overwhelmed. More than overwhelmed. Maybe even a bit confused."

"It's hard to tell these days exactly what I am," he told her quietly, yet with a small curve beside his mouth, showing that it wasn't all leaning towards grave purpose. "But yeah, it was a shock. But I had a feeling, to tell you the truth, which is still odd to think about. Dumbledore mentioned that he had close ties with Draco's mum. I should've known that… that, well, that something like this was happening."

"You aren't angry, are you? That they kept it from you?"

He let out a deep sigh. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it does," reassured Hermione. "I mean, I perfectly understand why they'd want to keep it from you, but for two _years_, Harry? Don't you feel a bit… I don't know, overlooked? It's just that hearing all of those things today, imagining what it would have been like to actually know what was happening back in our seventh year… It's strange, that's all. I feel like they should have told you, yet at the same time I'm grateful they chose not to so that you could enjoy your last year. But it's just that… I know you worried."

He smiled faintly. "I did. I think I went about half mad, waiting for him to attack. I felt like pushing everyone away because I knew he was going to do something big this time, to finish it off – he isn't very patient, you know. But the worst part was that I even started to forget for a while. Not completely, of course, but sometimes I just felt like popping by the wizarding world just because. I started to forget he was out to kill me. That was what scared me the most."

"I don't think you can forget, Harry," she said sadly. "You look in the mirror every day. You see your scar every day."

"Ironically, when you see something enough you start to forget it's there."

Hermione, sensing his tone, lowered her gaze to the tub of ice cream in front of them. She could see the milky, miniscule pool of melted strawberry-vanilla resting in the curved middle of her spoon. For a minute there she thought she could see herself in it, staring at it with a sad but thoughtful look, concerned for her friend as well as concerned for the world. For, as far as she knew, there were bigger things than wanting to kill Draco Malfoy, or wishing desperately to subject him to another ounce of physical harm. Much bigger things.

"Hermione… when you were… well, when you were with Malfoy, did you ever have any… clue?" There was hesitation in his voice – she could even feel it in his breath and the way his eyes avoided hers – yet she knew that she couldn't dodge this one. He wanted to know. It was only fair if she told the truth.

"No," she said, trying to ignore the sudden painful shout sweltering right in the middle of her throat. She lowered her hands down to her lap and they instantly formed two solid, tight fists. "Not at all. Not even a speck, or an atom. Nothing. I heard rumors about his mother but that was it. He was…" she then picked up her spoon again, stabbing it into the frozen desert. "… Complicatedly secretive. Easy to overlook when you're preoccupied with the barrage of insults he kept spewing out. You know that," she said sarcastically. "Typical of him."

He let out a breath that made it clear to her that he understood. "So… that's why you were angry today, wasn't it? Because he never told you?"

Hermione said nothing. Silence could mean many things. It could mean No, I don't want to talk about it, or Do you even have to ask? But this time she meant it to be a Yes. A simple Yes. After a few more ticks of quiet she changed the subject.

"Harry… you know, when Lucius Malfoy showed up, did you think that Lupin… I mean, surely you must've thought that…" There was that charming crinkle in her brow that always appeared when she was reluctant to go on. She ended the question there, and a few more seconds of silence went by. Harry knew what she meant, though.

"For a second, I did," he answered seriously. "It's just that sometimes the people you trust the most, for a split second, you just think that maybe they aren't at all what you thought them to be. And could you blame me? I was just so shocked and angry and even baffled. . . . I was so ready to believe it, and I did believe it. It was hard but it all happened so quickly. One minute it's old friends reacquainting, and then the next one's disarming the other and telling him to relax. It was suspicious."

"Yeah," said Hermione softly. "It was. I mean, I thought so, as well. Harry, but you are all right, aren't you? Today must've been taxing for you."

He smiled a little, as if he was laughing at her. "I've had worse days, Hermione. You know that."

And then they both lapsed into a concentrated silence. Harry was staring down at the ice cream tub now, perhaps reading the side about how some Muggle came up with a new way to make ice cream taste even better or something, and Hermione was looking at him. To put it quite simply, she was thinking. About a dozen things, really, all at once, but they all seemed to make way for one thing and she really hated what it was. She did. She hated it that Lupin, this nice man, made it seem as if she was in the wrong, too, for lashing out at Draco Malfoy. Sure, he said it was brilliant – but then proceeded in nicely preaching to her about second chances. What sort of crap was that? Why was everyone on her case about bloody _second chances_? It was like some sodding made-for-television movie. Man does something bad. Girl gets hurt. Girl moves away. Bad man seeks her out. Girl gives him another chance.

She couldn't even believe she was _considering_ this.

Even if she wanted to – which she didn't, not even a little – she could _never_ be that girl. Because that girl was _always_ an idiot and probably ends up dying in the end anyway.

Or knocked up, or something.

"Harry, what do you think about second chances?" she suddenly found herself blurting out, unaware that her mouth was moving and words were actually coming out of them until she heard herself and looked up to see that Harry was looking at her with a curious expression. By then, it was too late to actually pretend as if she only had a bit of a tickle in her throat or needed to sneeze and botch it all up by coughing.

"I mean," she said (rather pathetically, in her opinion), "do you think it's rubbish or not?" She sighed wearily. "It's Lupin. When he found me, we got to talking, and somehow we ended up arguing about whether giving second chances was a foolish thing to do or not. He thinks I ought to give it a try." She shook her head. "I don't believe in second chances," she frowned, although it was more a scowl. All right, it wasn't a frown at all. It was a downright mean glower.

"Not a lot of people do," Harry remarked.

"The last thing I want, is to…" She closed her eyes tight and looked as if she'd just swallowed something utterly vile. Something hot and vindictive passed over her lungs. "I can't even say it. It's just so… _unfair_, you know? Why do men like Draco Malfoy need people like us to forgive them? They don't even have the decency to _ask_ for it properly. Why can't they just fall off the face of the earth – leave all us nice, decent people alone?"

Harry let out a dry chuckle, one that wasn't at all humorous, but it seemed to fit somehow. It was exactly how things were: funny depending on where one was standing, like perhaps before the television screen, and this was some daytime soap – then it was funny. But not funny, even a bit on the grotesque side, when it was really your life playing out there, your heart that'd been broken with cruel lies. Life was impeccably sadistic that way. It was only funny when it wasn't you.

But it _was_ her.

And so one would know exactly why it wasn't the Barrel O' Laughs.

"Because then life would be easy," he told her, in response to her question. He seemed contemplative but his voice rumbled with a graveness that seemed too monotone. "And then everyone would die of kindness and happiness instead of wickedness and greed. Not to mention malicious purpose. Hasn't anyone ever told you that before?" he said, looking at her. He was smiling a little.

Hermione snorted, picking up her spoon again.

"Unfortunately, no. They failed to include that in _Hogwarts: A History_."

Harry laughed.

oooo

Draco Malfoy really couldn't remember what he did these days; not as clearly as he thought he should. Sometimes he felt as if he disappeared right in the walls of the manor, for it had always been told that two desolate souls belonged together. Sometimes, when he was not too busy thinking of other things, or out of the manor doing business, he sat in his office and remembered all of those times he'd actually dreamed of doing this, being free of things like Hogwarts and people like Harry Potter. But that feckless dreaming had long ended, anyone would know, for it never transpired as reality. Quite obviously, he was _still_ plagued with Harry Potter and Hogwarts. Lo, and what a shit time it was.

On this particular night he retired to the library, the one in the west wing. It was ridiculous now how he ended up in this place after just seeing ballsy Hermione Granger, and he was annoyed at the possibility that maybe it was a thing of his subconscious – that maybe, just maybe, he came here because it reminded him of her. And it wasn't as if he _liked_ being reminded of her. If anything he avoided it at all costs, only because there were some things he simply couldn't stand. Usually he kept himself on his toes by thinking about how stupid she was now, living with Potter – _ugh_, the abomination! And when he was feeling crazy – or drunk, it didn't matter – he even went to the extent of imagining scenarios in which Granger and Potter might have really reveled in, before quite rightly beating himself over the head with a stick until he passed out.

It would be shameful to say that he thought of her every day. Humiliating in the least, but downright awful and tragic to tell anyone that when he did think of her he felt like a kid again. Something about the simplicity of having something that always somehow contented him, like sunshine for some people – he didn't know anymore, it was quite vague. He didn't _like_ thinking about her, if that's what you're thinking. If he could've he would have buried himself with work and not have thought of her even when it was truly necessary, but this was one of those moments where it was really unfortunate to be so damned rich; it would be pointless to work because he already had so much bloody money. It really was a pain sometimes, you know.

_She_ was a pain.

That damn Hermione Granger.

Seriously, she was.

He couldn't get it out of his arrogant blond head. He'd _known_ why she'd excused herself, saying that she had to go to the loo. Ridiculous as it was, he'd had a feeling. And he'd seen the look on her face, that pale, crumpled, sort of devastating defeat and shock. He'd never admit it, not even to himself, but even now he felt that pain, sharp to dull then dull to sharp again, piercing through the iron-wrought wall in his chest. A part of him – the microscopic, _good_ part of him – had told him to go after her. And he didn't know why he felt that, when he even dared to question it. For, as far as he knew, she was well off with Potter, happy and everything with their stupid burnt chicken and sunflower oven mitts. They were happy; he was happy.

Or…

They were happy; he wanted to chuck furniture at their faces.

Every time he saw them he just wanted to walk over to them and beat them over their dumb heads with big, heavy books that spoke nothing about anything but logic. Maybe then they'd see sense. What sense, he didn't know, but he had a feeling he'd finally be satisfied with himself. And he liked being satisfied with himself. It was the best feeling in the whole world – in sobriety.

He shifted in his leather armchair, scowling down at the book he was holding. It was open to a page, a random page that had a picture of an old man on it looking solemn and scholarly. Draco continued to sneer down at him, so discontented and disconcerted. The man kept frowning. If he hadn't known better he could've mistaken it as almost a mirror of himself, save for the fact that Draco knew very well that he was much more handsome.

He wasn't aware of anyone coming into the room – but that was how his mother was. Silent and stealthy like a cat, yet graceful that once you did notice her standing right there so quietly out of the corner of your eye you had to take a breath in and admire her. Draco had much experience on her sneaking up on him like this, so he simply ignored her. He was mildly irked that she kept barging in on him at these specific times when he just wanted to be alone and think. Most of the time she only watched him, and sometimes she asked questions, but never about what was obvious. He never knew what she was getting at, so usually he would just get up and leave.

(After kissing her good night, of course.)

Narcissa watched her son with an ambient look on her face, secretly smiling to herself – a smile that no one could decode, not even Lucius, or even Da Vinci. Sadistic as it was, she fancied seeing her son so tortured – only because it was further proof to her that he could never be what his father had become. Lucius had stopped caring. Draco, quite obviously from the somewhat vexed and frustrated look on his face, seemed to care a rather lot about things. See, it was about learning to draw positive things from situations like your son acting like a pathetic, scornful sap over some girl.

It was cute.

"Well, I think tonight went rather well, don't you?" she asked mannerly.

His expression firmed. "It went fine. It would've gone _better_ if you'd just refused from curtseying," he remarked, though it did not hold its usual poison – only because he could never harbor such a tone when speaking to his mother. Yes, Draco was a monster but not the sort of monster that hatefully barked at his own mother. "What is it with you women? Always wanting to curtsey, or burn things, or live with men glorified by arse-kissing, hypocritical media," Draco grumbled. He wasn't aware he was talking about Hermione. He almost never was.

Narcissa smiled.

"Yes, they do make a fine couple, don't they?" she said wistfully, pretending to be blind to her son's utter suffering.

Draco's eyes flashed when he looked up at her, his lips thinning across his face in irritation. Finally, he set down his book and stood. "I'm going to bed," he said rather sourly, before brushing his lips against his mother's cheek and without another sound, disappeared from the library.

Still standing, she looked down at the leather-bound book her son had been reading. She picked it up, read the cover, and sighed, heading over to the shelf and neatly cinching it among the other books.

"I honestly haven't a clue why he's become so obsessed with collecting these books," she said to herself as she finally stood back, only slightly wondering at the silver and gold letters of the many editions of _Hogwarts: A History_ immaculately organized on his bookshelf. There had to at least be a dozen, all of them hard to get and a rarity on the market.

"Such a strange boy," she whispered. "You'd think he'd hated the place, yet here he is, with books all about it."

* * *

**Post-A/N:** I know you hate me right now, but please review! I've already written up the next four chapters, so believe me when I tell you that snogging's (and no, I'm not being tricky – this is Draco and Hermione kissing!) coming up, and more weird people, plus jealousy, drunk tourists, and Hermione passing out – twice. Stay tuned! 


	6. Horny Tourists Night and Vodka

If It Was You

**A/N:** Welcome to the sixth chapter of If It Was You. Here we see a bit more of emotional Hermione… and thank goodness, her feelings for Big Bad Draco start to trickle out now, and… Is that jealousy I smell? Plus, yay, **Draco/Hermione interaction**! I think you folks are going to like this chapter. (And, yeah… I know, everyone needs to take a serious chill pill.) Plus! Drunk Hermione! And, I know the Three Broomsticks is supposed to be a kid-friendly place, but bear with me?

**Dedication:** To Ashley. Why? Why?

**Horny Tourists Night at the Three Broomsticks**

Hermione's bad day was compensated for, oddly enough, with three glorious weeks of the absolute lack in the appearances of Draco Malfoy. One could say she was ecstatic, if not mildly paranoid a fraction of the time, and cynically wondering when he'd pop out of nowhere, like when the lights were off when she came home, or when she was in her knickers dressing up, or when she was crossing a dark alley, or when she was in the dairy section of her local Muggle grocery store. There was also the fact that Ginny Weasley had somehow dug her way into Hermione's personal life again, like a mischievous gopher, for what she had feared would arise from her public humiliation of Draco in Hogwarts finally – inevitably – did: Ginny's interest and efforts were triggered yet again, and now she requested Hermione's company far too often for it to be of innocent, friendly purpose.

Apparently, Ginny had picked up a new hobby over the summer called Psychoanalyzing and Bothering the Hell Out of People.

What was worse was that Ginny was putting all sorts of ideas in her head again, no matter how much of a touchy subject it was, and especially no matter how much Hermione tried to tune her out and ignore her. Apparently seventh-year girls were very insensitive to people's blatant suffering and insufferable in their matchmaking and philosophies of love and past relationships. Hermione had probably blown up at her twice already (and imagined gagging her more times than she could count), but Ginny had just told her to stop being so sensitive – for what? Hadn't she and Malfoy broken up an entire year ago? So why was it that she was being such a begrudging jerk? Why couldn't she just let it go, after all, it was what happened in relationships – "Nothing lasts forever, you know that, Hermione, so stop freezing him out, will you? Quite obviously he's not out to harm you, since he didn't punch you back that one day when he easily could have."

That always hit a vulnerable spot, even though she tried her best to be a welder and make sure everything inside her was strong, grade-A iron when it came to Draco Malfoy. She always said, through gritted teeth, that that wasn't the point. But Ginny's constant prying of her past had slumped her all time high into a miserable low, causing her to question exactly why it was she hated him so much – which was wrong! Utterly wrong! Couldn't a person just hate a person without people trying to resolve their problems for them? Couldn't people – uh, what was that word again? Oh yeah, it was – _mind their own business_? What was Ginny and Remus and Dumbledore seeing that she wasn't? No, wait, eighty-six that – she didn't want to know.

But what was bizarre was that she didn't necessarily talk to Hermione about her getting back with Malfoy – thank God, or else she would have bashed her over the head with something heavy – or anything particularly _love_ related. Usually she was always rambling about Hermione's unfortunate inability to forgive people. She seemed to know that Malfoy had done something horrible to her but effortlessly disregarded the look of obvious frustration and slight pain in their recollections of that year. And it was sad; it was, because Hermione tried not to hear her for she herself knew that the youngest Weasley was often ridiculous. But – and this may not make sense to anybody, for it didn't even make sense to her – her incessant pestering and analyzing and unsolicited advice really grazed her where it was sore. Especially after three weeks. Especially when the redundancy and – shit – _good points_ had drilled themselves into her head and chimed like a never-ending nursery rhyme. She lost sleep because of it. She lost sanity because of it.

By then, Ginny had made it clear that Hermione had to _make_ her understand why she couldn't do what she was asking her to do for a variety of reasons so complicated that it completely and mercilessly screwed with her brain and scruples, yet simple enough that Ginny Weasley – who, when she last checked, was still human and imperfect like the rest of them – should understand. Just a little. A little.

And the fact that maybe she was feeling a little overemotional today probably had something to do with it, too.

"Oh, come on, Hermione, don't be so dramatic. I mean, I know Malfoy's a malicious prick with a boot lodged up his arse, but really, it shouldn't be so hard after an entire _year_—"

"He _hurt_ me, all right, Ginny? He _lied_ to me! Is that what you want to hear?" Hermione shouted to her one day when she had followed her into the back room. Her voice was shrill and loud – passionate, so passionate that her cheeks were pink and her eyes were shiny. "That I _can't_ forgive him, not now, not ever, because I _don't want to_! I _can't_! Because every time I look at him, every time I see him or hear him or think about him it still _hurts_! Is that what you want? And I _hate_ him! I do! Because I know I should be over it, it's been an entire year – but he's _back_, you know? You _saw_ him! Prancing in here like he's God, like he's got a right to step on people on his way to the top – well, I'm not going to allow that! Do you understand me? I'm _not_!" Her vision had started to blur then; and she didn't know what was happening, for all she felt was that pain in her chest, like someone was stabbing rusty screwdrivers into her. But Ginny had finally shut up and never mentioned later on that Hermione had been crying.

And Hermione, who was perfectly insane in her ways, would have never believed her anyway. It was one of those times when she cried and never knew it because she was so passionate about something that she couldn't get a grip on reality, the smoky, physical reality – that she hated. Because that's what she reckoned what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. The way circumstances screwed with people's minds until there was finally a breaking point, and they reached it, or they bordered it. Or they were forced to very violent measures.

And one could not blame her, for Hermione was a girl. And being that she was a girl, she cried over her feelings sometimes. It was not a weakness but a way to vent. A very wet way. And it was okay. It was. Ginny made sure to tell her that while she soothingly patted her back while she continued to sniffle about how unfair it all was, how much of a bastard he was, and that she just _wished_ he punched her back – she would've totally destroyed him, without a doubt. And Ginny, who was a good friend when she was not pestering people for the sake of her "hobby," said that right, she would most certainly have. And it was one of those incredibly vulnerable moments where it didn't matter that she was angry with Ginny for doing this to her, for perhaps it was all a plan – maybe she needed to _come_ to these terms. Maybe it was supposed to do her some good, like get her one step closer to getting over it. Because Ginny was right. It had been one entire year already. What on earth was taking this long? Of course, one has to point out the fact that she had been doing absolutely fine before he came along…

What the hell? So what was this trying to tell her?

"Bloody hell, Ginny," she suddenly said, drawing back from her friend's embrace. She looked at her. "What? Did you just say something?"

Because she so very hoped she hadn't said what she thought she said.

Ginny gave her a blank look that made it obvious to Hermione that maybe she was just hearing things. Not a very healthy sign, but whatever. Nothing about this was healthy anyway.

"Are you sure you didn't say anything?" asked Hermione, and her friend then proceeded in leading her to a chair where she strongly advised her to sit down and maybe take a few breaths because she was imagining voices when, quite clearly, she hadn't said anything.

They sat down, and Hermione had long stopped crying. Ginny looked around at the barren library, which was nothing new, and then looked back at Hermione with a soft look. "But Hermione," she whispered, "why is it, do you think, it still hurts?" And it didn't look like she was using one of her mind tricks again, either; she really looked like she wanted to know.

Hermione grunted.

Well, join the party.

"Because he's a bastard," she replied without much thought. She gave her an irritated look, which looked wearier and more miserable than it was the annoyed half. "Don't ask me that, Ginny." Then she told her to go fetch her a book from the front desk so that she might read and feel better.

ooooo

"Tell me again, Hermione, why you dragged me here to do absolutely nothing but stalk you while you're looking for… groceries," Ron said, eyeing the variety of cereal boxes and then inching closer to the shelf, picking up the one with the toucan on it. "I say, you Muggles truly are bizarre with your… food. You have animals on it with little word bubbles!" He laughed and Hermione rolled her eyes, remembering how shallow his joy was. At least it kept him entertained.

"Because Harry's working and I can't very well leave you alone at our flat, now, can I? You might burn it down or something," she muttered, reading the nutrition facts on the back of a cereal box and wrinkling up her face in dissatisfaction. In the very back of her mind there was a teeny voice that bubbled up with laughter and shouted on about the fact that _she_ had almost burned it down herself… and so she was one to talk. But Ron didn't know that, and she didn't think it was a very important thing for him to know, so he wasn't going to. Simple.

He made an exaggerated sound from his mouth. "Hermione, you've got to loosen up. I already told you I wouldn't touch anything, except maybe the telly." She remembered that Ron had been so fascinated with that thing that he had stayed for three days watching it without sleep until they had to force him out. "How can I burn your flat down if I don't touch anything?"

"I don't know, but knowing you, I'm certain you'll find a way," she said distractedly as they headed towards the fruits and vegetables section. "Besides, I'm almost done. I just need to get a few more things and then we can go."

"I should just visit Harry at the office," remarked Ron, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around with a strange look on his face. "He'd let me stay at your flat. I bet he wouldn't force me to stick around you in this… smelly place."

Hermione scoffed. "No, he wouldn't. That's one of our rules. You can't ever stay there by yourself – ever."

Ron was incredulous. "What are you, his mum?"

"Might as well be," she mumbled.

He grabbed a tomato as Hermione stopped to inspect the cabbages. "You know, Hermione, it'd do you some good to stop acting like everyone's mum and to start acting like a normal girl. You know, not so smart about everything and…" he was passing it in between his two hands as he looked at her with a furrowed ginger brow, trying to think. "I don't know, to stop acting like you always have to have your way. It isn't very attractive. I mean, it _could_ be." He grabbed another tomato and started to juggle. "But in your case it's not."

"Well, thanks," she said dryly. "I appreciate it, since your history in romance and your dating life is just _blossoming_ with diamonds and gold bricks. Obviously, you're doing something right."

"I mean it," he insisted. "See? See – that's what I'm talking about! The constant put-downs and sarcasm and witty retorts! That's how a girl's supposed to be _after_ they get married, not before they catch a bloke and trap them! At least other girls, they don't show their true colors until after they'd gotten that rock on their finger and a marriage proposal –"

"That's because those girls are gold-digging bints," snapped Hermione. "And I thank God every day my brain has been nurtured to have more oxygen and actually retain information than what would push up my breasts or… how to look like some trollop," she said, quite disturbed with the direction their conversation had turned, rolling her cart away. Ron followed, still juggling the tomatoes.

"I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt anybody if you'd acted… like a _girl_ once every while," he said oh-so-smartly. He certainly knew how to charm women with his words, all right.

"Oh, yes, because I'm _not_ a girl, I'm some creature that is just _utterly_ confused with its sexuality —"

"Hermione, I didn't mean it that way," Ron groaned.

"No, Ron, please spare me the lectures and advice, all right?" she said. "If I _cared_ about snagging a bloke or getting a marriage proposal right now, I'll be sure to perhaps consider all of the _helpful_ things you said, but right now that doesn't seem very likely, all right? And, by the way, I am downright _disgusted_ by how you view the female population and your stereotypical views about the way we are supposed to act – you are just like a man!" she exclaimed, gaining a few looks from the other people in the store. "A _pig_!"

"Well, I respect your opinion, but not so loud, eh?" he said sheepishly, his cheeks flushing a little red, halting his juggling and quickly putting them in the crate with the peaches as he caught up with Hermione. He ducked his head down a little in embarrassment. "You know I love you, Hermione, you're my best friend – hell, I can even quite vividly recall a time when _we_ would have been good together…"

"Ron, we'd kill each other."

"Yeah, but it'd be in a good way." He began to laugh. "Cheer up, Hermione, don't be so unpleasant towards everything. I was just trying to get my point across. I mean, all I'm trying to say is that I'd really like it if you'd just venture out into the dating scene every now and then. I've tried to set you up with some of my mates but you've always turned them down – didn't even offer a good reason, just a plain old No. You really have to take your chances. You only live once, you know."

He didn't state the fact that he didn't want to see her end up as some old maid with thousands of cats (even he had been sad when Crookshanks ran away) and a great big monumental library. He didn't even make a joke about her marrying the library, which would have been typical Ron behavior. He just looked at her pityingly. Because Hermione knew that he didn't have to say it; it would have been cruel to say it straight aloud. They were in a market, for goodness's sake. There was no need to go shouting around that Hermione Granger was perhaps the only Hogwarts Alumni who was Most Likely to End Up Alone.

Merlin, that was a depressing thought.

"Ron," she sighed, though she really felt like people – or, more specifically, the Weasleys – were attacking her personal life for no apparent reason known to her. "I don't have time for this."

Because grocery shopping and getting lectured by Ronald Weasley, whose soul had currently vacated his body and was instead replaced by some queer love doctor, and finding out that the price for tangerines and apples had gone up almost twenty pence since she had last been in here was almost a little too much to bear right now.

She started heading towards the checkout line, her head buzzing with the most dismal and controversial of thoughts, when she spotted something from the corner of her eye. She turned her head and caught a man closely staring at her, a man no older than she was, perhaps even a tad younger. He seemed familiar to her for in that instant there was a sudden spark in her head, and she pursed her lips as she tried to quickly remember where she had seen him. He gave her an ambiguous, mysterious look before Hermione felt her cart hit something and heard a loud crash that made her whole body jump about two feet into the air.

Her gaze jerked forwards as she watched the pyramid of canned corn clatter down to the ground from the impact of her cart, rolling around on the floor, the hollow sound of metal on tile silencing the entire market. Everybody was looking at her now, and she felt her face coloring at an alarming rate. Her palms were sweating against the protective plastic handle of the cart.

"Hermione, why can't you watch where you're going?" said Ron from behind her, and for once, began to do something useful as he walked ahead of her and began to pick up the runaway cans. "Do you know how _long_ it takes to assemble these into-into _that_?"

But as Hermione looked back at where the man had been, by the potatoes, he was gone.

ooooo

Over the next few days Hermione felt a very odd feeling every time she left her flat until she returned home. She couldn't exactly place it, for she had no experiences to compare it to and therefore couldn't precisely say, but often she felt as if she was being… watched. It certainly was odd. One moment she would see something from the corner of her eye that would send her body into a strange, paralyzed state, but when she turned, it would be gone, or it would just be some regular person on a street, waiting for the bus. By the third day she was convinced that she was only being paranoid, which was not new. But usually her paranoia involved Draco Malfoy somehow, and that was not the case this time around. Actually, she was doing rather fine in the Draco Malfoy department. All she needed was a break from him, a particular amount of time in which she spent minimal time thinking of him.

It was also because she was suddenly so busy. The library had been back to being swamped again, for it seemed that three professors had assigned big, scary essays all at once, and then there was Peeves, who for some reason had chosen Hermione to bother this week by disorganizing the books in the shelves or – quite conveniently – throwing them out of the window. Madam Rosmerta had also called her in for extra shifts because her pub had gained popularity from magical out-of-towners and now tourists were filling up the room before it even struck eight. Most of the tourists were adults and often came late, but they seemed to order rounds and rounds before they left. Lately they'd been closing later and later than usual and Madam Rosmerta, though ecstatic about her pub's fame, was getting a bit worried about its reputation. They hadn't taken down the Adults Only sign in three days.

"Sorry again, girls," she said as another pack of Swedish wizards entered, laughing obnoxiously and then eyeing all of the women in the room. "I know it's awful for me to ask this of you, but it's real important. And remember, if anyone tries anything, just do what I told you," she said, before she rushed away to collect orders. These nights always seemed to go by in a blur yet it didn't end as quickly as they liked – it was just in the manner everything played out, as if she was watching it all in rapid motion and then there were the colorful trails of auras and activity.

Hermione, who was tying on her waist apron, looked at her fellow bartender, Nicole. Nicole was usually the one who attracted all of the dirty men because she was blond and – let's face it – beautiful, but she was also snarky and cruel when it came to horn balls, so it all worked out just fine. She and Hermione got along just fine, but Hermione could not help but feel a little bit of resentment and envy towards her when she did manage to catch a nice, _decent_ bloke's attention. Sometimes she wished she were as fearless and sexy as she was. But that was a painful thought.

"Good luck," Nicole nodded at her as she hastily put up her hair. "And remember that if you can smell their breath from all the way behind the bar, then it's time for them to stop."

Hermione silently wondered how on earth she had gotten a job as a bartender at the Three Broomsticks during Horny Tourists Night. "Yeah, sure thing. You too. But I'm sure you won't have any problems." But Nicole probably hadn't heard her, for she had already walked away and up to the bar where a man had instantly started to order some alcohol for him and his buddies. He then proceeded in asking for her name. And Hermione, who was ironically smiling only because it was the only thing she could do right now, walked up to her station and whipped up some gin for a sixty-year-old man, on the rocks.

Just an hour into her shift, it took all that Hermione had not to duck underneath where the people couldn't see her and take a good gulp of vodka, or scotch, it didn't matter. She passed the temptation, but when a woman had almost thrown up on her and a man who could have been her father offered to take her to his home, by the tragically depressing end of her second hour she had tucked herself away for five minutes and nestled that bottle in between her legs, breathing deeply and taking a few swigs just to keep her from passing out. She felt a little lightheaded, no doubt, and the room seemed too hot or there were simply too many people breathing, and pressed the cool glass against her temple for a minute, thinking dazedly to herself. Today just wasn't her day.

It was sort of funny the way she forgot how miserable her job made her sometimes. It wasn't because people treated her horribly, or the management sucked, or the work was tedious or boring – it was none of those things. It was simply just that she had never meant to be a bartender; she couldn't even stand alcohol, and yet, here she was, encouraging people to get drunk and even go home with that guy in the corner of the bar who – let's face it – probably had one or more types of VD, only to wake up the next morning with no recollection of the night before nor any clothes. She hated it that sometimes it even drove her to drinking, only because it was _right there_, and it was accessible. Funny, because when Draco Malfoy had come strutting back into her life again she forgot all of this. She'd been so focused in her anger for him that work no longer made her so unhappy, because she'd been vindictive.

Sad.

It was horribly sad.

"Bartender! Bartender! _Bartender_! I need a drink!"

Hermione closed her eyes and her clammy fingers squeezed around the neck of the bottle, and she sighed. It wasn't even ten yet and she was already surrounded by drunken people. That contributed _generously_ to the sad factor of it all. Yet she felt guilty about feeling all of this. She was _employed_, wasn't she? Shouldn't she be happy about that?

Yeah, but a woman had almost thrown up on her.

Suddenly, there was a floating head – no, there was a face was staring right back at her. It was Nicole, who had her thin, silvery brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. "Hermione? I need you. You're going to need to tuck that away for now until we get our break, all right? Come on, up, up."

She didn't know which she was talking about, the bottle of vodka or the fact that she was grossly unhappy with Horny Tourists Night and her job. But she got up anyway, because it _was_ still her job, and one Nicole against the crowd at the Three Broomsticks would be like leaving her to battle a pack of wolves. Very drunk, strange, constantly-slurring-their-words, smelly wolves. But as she crawled out from underneath the bar, taking the bottle of vodka with her and hiding it behind some of the other bottles, she looked up and saw something that made her heart stop. And maybe it was just the alcohol, and maybe it was a sign that those few swigs were going to send her into a heart attack. But her eyes widened, and her brain – there seemed to be like little fireworks inside there, the kind that popped and swelled and rattled.

There was – she could have sworn – Draco Malfoy sitting down at one of the tables not far from where she was standing. It was even a tad bizarre the way the crowd – the noisy, glittery-eyed crowd – parted at that exact moment when she would see him sitting down, looking so unruffled yet so out of place in such a rambunctious, unsophisticated place. Instantly she was struck with confusion. Draco Malfoy did not belong in the Three Broomsticks on Horny Tourists Night. How did he even find a seat? What was he even _doing_ here?

Hermione continued to stare at him, hard at first, and then she rubbed her eyes and looked again. She was quite certain she hadn't drunk as much for hallucinations to take place. And he was still there. Sitting down.

She blinked.

"Scotch, please, and a dry martini," she heard a woman say in front of her. Hermione nodded, but was still sending a disturbed look in Draco's direction and blindly gripped the bottle of scotch. She took a glass from her right and began to pour, her eyes still transfixed on him and wondering what the _hell_ he was doing here, when suddenly she felt something surprisingly cold and wet on her knuckles and heard a loud gasp from in front of her.

Her eyes flickered down in alarm and saw that in all of her inattentiveness she had missed her aim and spilled scotch all over the counter. The woman was glaring at her now, and Hermione mumbled an apology as she grabbed a towel and wiped it up. She got her what she ordered successfully this time but afterwards went back to observing him, despite what protests she most certainly had. She felt a little twinge in her chest as she watched him and wondered if he had stayed away on purpose (which almost made her want to smile a little, just because it showed that she was still threatening to him). Somehow her anger had simmered just a little, for perhaps, yes, maybe she had been overtly dramatic in her shock… but she still felt that blend of pain and anger like a thick, unconquerable segment of rope bound around her chest.

She still hated him. She couldn't say that enough. And she couldn't even begin to fathom why Lupin had said what he had said to her that day for she feared she might down the _whole_ vodka bottle and never even get anywhere in terms of Lupin's intent behind his vague and complicatedly confusing remark, except maybe increase her chances of being an alcoholic. But maybe – _maybe_ – if he _attempted_ to apologize and told her the truth, and it wasn't a hideous one, then maybe she could start to forgive him. But somehow she felt like the vodka had diluted her, or it was just this drunken atmosphere that was making her think like this. Because she remembered that sometimes saying things were a lot easier than doing them. And what if her hate was stemmed too deeply that she _couldn't_ forgive him – not even if she wanted to? Because she felt like that sometimes, too.

But then a slender figure passed by him and took the seat in front of him and it seemed as if her whole train of thought – or what had been the beginning of what could have been a productive start of a resolution – shattered. Funny, because she never quite got it when writers used the term "shattered," maybe because she was just deftly ignorant at times, but it was at this instant that she felt it – just like how the writers described it. Like shattering.

She watched as the woman smiled politely at Draco, and she couldn't tell, really, but she was almost certain he had smiled back. And Draco Malfoy almost _never_ smiled, not even when he was happy. Hermione, who felt paralyzed and ambushed by vicious shock, felt her brain doing a double take, and then a triple take, but was still having major difficulties trying to comprehend what was happening. Because it had never occurred to her – not once – that ever since that day they'd broken up he would have moved on. She hadn't even thought about it, which was strange, but it only made the impact of this-this _occurrence_ even bigger. And she shouldn't have a problem with it, none at all, because she completely hated him and so what if he was being an awfully cheap date by bringing her to the Three Broomsticks on Horny Tourists Night? Why, she should be laughing her frizzy little head off!

Draco Malfoy was a _cheap date_!

Who would've figured?

She was fuming. She wasn't aware of it, though, not really, because when one is incensed by jealousy (and she did not know this) ninety-five percent of the time one does not even know it. And Hermione could be very ignorant sometimes, especially when it came to Draco. She could feel herself glaring at them, saying that she didn't care about Draco Malfoy and-and his skinny _chicken_, but why on earth did they have to come _here_? On Horny Tourists Night? Seriously, was this a conspiracy?

And the woman looked old enough to be his _mother_! So what if she was beautiful and had the body of a goddess – she was _old_! The woman probably had pieces of _lint_ older than him!

Oh God.

Hermione whirled around, breathing hard, feeling something hot tightening around her ribs. Her head felt feverish and her hands had broken out in sweat. She hastily brushed aside the bottles and retrieved the vodka she'd hidden, closing her eyes tightly as she leaned her head back and pressed the bottle against her lips. The liquor burned her throat. It burned her mouth and her lungs, but somehow she thought it could make her feel better – see? She was already acting like an alcoholic. And it was horrible, and she hated alcohol… this was most certainly _not_ something she was going to tell her children… if she even had any children… she'll probably only have, like, thirty cats… and even then the cats wouldn't listen to her just because she was a stupid old maid… and who ever listened to an old maid? Nobody she knew.

Because old maids were ugly and pathetic.

"Hermione! Save a little for the customers, all right?" she heard someone say, and her eyes darted open, snatching the bottle away from her mouth. She looked to her right, where Madam Rosmerta was making a drink for two brunettes, yet glancing worriedly at Hermione as she grabbed two olives and dropped them in. "Are you all right, dear? I think you should take your break now, you look a little funny." The brunettes were staring at her now, and they were nodding in agreement.

Oh how she would have taken her break without a moment to spare, almost tripping over herself to get out of here and run out of the back door, breathing as much as she could before she – she was almost sure – threw up. But as much as she wanted to get away from Draco Malfoy invading her territory, he and his insufferable _date_ with somebody's mother, she found herself firmly shaking her head. She had to force out the words, and she didn't think she did it very well, either. "No, I'll be all right. I just…"

Madam Rosmerta shook her head, smiling a little as if she sympathized with her. "No need to explain. I know."

She got back to work, and since Nicole had taken her break, there was a crowd in front of both her and Madam Rosmerta now. She didn't look up as she made their orders and wasn't thinking about their orders, either; she was on automatic, she could do anything without thinking about it, only because she was too busy thinking of something else that took the efforts of her whole brain to try and break down. She messily made their drinks with a deeply embedded scowl on her face, feeling so angry and-and just plain old hateful, gritting her teeth because she felt as if she was so furious she could cry.

But she wasn't going to cry, because she wasn't a weepy drunk. She wasn't even a _drunk_. All she could think about was Draco and that woman. How she hadn't even gone out on a single date since, well, never, while he was going through all of the women in the wizarding world as if they were lined up in a queue. And hell, maybe they were. But she thought it so _despicable_ how he had to show up _here_, out of all places, when they could have gone to some high maintenance, fancy-schmancy, toilets-with-diamonds-in-the-seat restaurant. Not some pub that actually had a Horny Tourists Night and practically had no vacant loos, since almost every one of them were usually occupied by snogging teenagers.

Maybe Dumbledore had told him that she worked here and he was here to rub it in her face. She didn't doubt it. Maybe he just wanted to get back at her for what she'd done to him, the constant ill treatment, and, well, injury. It was just too much of a coincidence.

"Two glasses of your best scotch, please," a voice from in front of her said.

Hermione froze. She recognized that voice: a superior and gratingly arrogant drawl. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand and her heart shudder – with rage, with hate, with sadness, with jealousy – as she stiffly looked up and felt something heavy hitch up her throat. Her lips drew down into a scowl.

There she was, face to face with Draco Malfoy after three _in_sufficient weeks of his absence. She hated it that when she first looked up and saw his face she felt an overwhelming tackle of pain that seemed to unravel every inch of her, and she couldn't even try to compose herself because she was too busy trying not to let her eyes water with spiteful tears or her chin tremble or her tongue lash out at him. She feared what she would say. She insisted it was anger, and humiliation, and hate, but she felt something else toiling in there too, smoking like a freshly fired pistol.

"Granger?" he said, one of his brows climbing up his forehead, looking surprised to see her, because obviously he had said his order while still looking back at his… "date." Blech. "You're-you're a _bartender_? _Here_?"

Well, shit.

"It's called employment," she said harshly, glowering at him. "But I wouldn't expect you'd ever need it, would you? Thought so."

"But what are you doing _bartending_? I thought you were a librarian." He gave her an ambiguous look that almost made her want to look away. He was going to ridicule her now, she knew it. She deserved it. Well, Draco Malfoy? Bring it. "I say, you don't exactly have a good handle on this one," he remarked dryly, motioning to the wet countertop and grimacing. "Maybe you should just stick to the books. I rather think you're much more compatible with those than drunks."

She wasn't sure if that was an insult. His tone wasn't ice, that was for sure, but that only made her angrier. What was he doing to her? What – did he feel sorry for her now, because she was a bartender _and_ a librarian, and so she wasn't even _worth_ his insults?

"I'm sure," she said tartly, still fuming inside. She got the bottle of scotch and hesitated for a bit, her grip tight on the bottle, deciding whether she should fulfill the urge to throw it in his face. "But I doubt anyone could be as compatible with old whores like you," she hissed, and Draco's once passive face eased into a sneer. She nodded behind him, to his date. He didn't turn around to look. "Did you run out of people your age? Or did the world suddenly get smarter and see how much of a prat you are?"

"I feel no need to discuss my personal life to _you_, Granger. Besides, I wouldn't talk about running out of things if I were you." His scowl intensified and she sensed that familiar hint of venom in his voice. "You shouldn't talk so quickly. _You're_ the one who's pathetic enough to grasp for something nearby and lower your standards – because Potter's accessible, and he's a hero, and you aren't tortured by the look of his scar every day – because, hey!" he suddenly said. "You're _used_ to it! You're _living_ together, remember?"

"I don't see how any of this has to do with Harry," she snapped, still completely oblivious to Draco's assumption of her and Harry's relationship. "This is what you always do, don't you? You twist everything around to make it involve him – are you so sick of being the villain that you've resorted to pinpointing it all on _him_? Because, newsflash, Draco Malfoy," she said, banging down the two glasses of scotch in front of him. "You're _always_ going to be the villain. It's not what you do. You can join our side with your mum and _Snape_," she hissed. "But it won't change anything. You can save a life. Hell, you can save _my_ life. But you're _always_ going to be a villain, because that is – _who_ – _you_ – _are_."

"And you, Hermione Granger," he heatedly retorted, "are always going to be a psychotic basketcase in need of a _major_ lay."

And, grimacing at her, he took his drinks and walked away.

Bastard.

ooooo

She spent the rest of her terrible night watching them. It was a pathetic and ex-girlfriendish thing to do, but she did it. Over the span of the three hours they spent there talking, she grew to hate Draco and his date even more than she thought was emotionally possible. What was even worse was that she'd started taking more swigs of vodka regularly, and while she insisted that she wasn't drunk, she was feeling a little lightheaded and a tad disoriented sometimes. She thought it would make things a little better if the alcohol had numbed her a little – just a little – but it most certainly was _not_ doing anything for her. She realized how much people lied to her about this stuff and subconsciously asked why they drank when they were in pain – wasn't it supposed to dull that hurt? Wasn't it? Well, then, why the hell wasn't her pain being dulled? The only thing that was happening to her was that she was getting drunker and drunker. And that had totally not been her intention.

She told herself that it didn't seem as if Draco and that woman he was with were talking about anything particularly enjoyable, for Draco's face was grave the entire time, and so was the lady's. They appeared to be talking about something really serious, which was strange, because the Three Broomsticks was certainly not the place to be talking about something serious (i.e. incident with Harry during their third year when their professors had been talking about Sirius Black). Plus, he barely even looked at her – and when she followed his constant gaze, she saw that he was watching a man sitting on one of the stools. Hermione stiffened as she recognized him; it was the same man from the market!

But when she turned her gaze towards him his eyes flickered away, and she got this very disturbing feeling inside her skin. What was that man doing here? She'd seen him in a _Muggle_ market… and now the Three Broomsticks? Something was definitely not right.

"Hermione, dear, are you all right? I think you should take your break now before you drink all of the vodka. In fact, we're out of vodka, so why don't you go to the back and fetch us one more case before heading out," Madam Rosmerta said, her voice clearly telling Hermione that she was concerned about her. Hermione couldn't blame her. She'd known from the start that Hermione was not a drinker (which was one of the reasons she had been so quick to hire her) and, well, when she started downing all that vodka… obviously, something ugly was going on.

"Yeah, sure thing," replied Hermione, taking her vodka with her before Madam Rosmerta snatched it away from her and gave her a stern look. Hermione nodded as she remembered her 'Drinking will not solve your problems but make you even stupider' lecture she'd given them right before they started, and there was also the 'Just because it's here doesn't mean it's here for _you_' that was fairly relevant to this. So, with empty hands, Hermione made her way towards the back.

Back at booth number twelve, a pair of gray eyes trailed one Hermione Granger. Draco said a quick goodbye to the woman sitting before him before getting up and following her.

She went into the backroom, looking for the box of vodka. She went through all of the boxes until she came across one messily labeled but had a distinguishable 'V' in it, so she assumed it was the one that held all the vodka. She cursed under her breath as she looked inside the box and discovered that it was empty. She then spent five minutes searching the room for another box of vodka, or a bottle that had somehow rolled away, but only found a few mice and some questionable stains on the floor.

She was somewhat embarrassed to be going back empty-handed to Madam Rosmerta and having to be the one to tell her that there wasn't anymore vodka, for that only proved how irresponsible she was. And usually Hermione was not this irresponsible – usually Hermione was not _that_ bartender who drank all the vodka. And usually Hermione was not _that_ girl who was still angry with her ex-boyfriend for having found somebody else. But hey, maybe it was opposite day today and she hadn't gotten the memo.

Frowning to herself and running one hand through her frizzy curls, she exited the backroom and began to pass the short hall to get to the bar. Suddenly, she found herself being pulled into a corner, the corner right beside the doorway, and where they would be hidden by that damn door curtain Nicole had insisted on putting up because her Muggle aunt had gotten it for her from Japan.

She was going to scream but felt a hand on her mouth and heard a voice. Her head was slightly dizzy now, for when someone was mildly drunk it wasn't the brightest idea to engage in fast movements, and felt her body closely fitting against this-this unknown _person's _that it sent a blatant shudder down her body. She squinted through the darkness of the hall and found her eyes enlarging as she realized she _knew_ this person. In fact, she _hated_ this person.

She gasped, feeling his hand against her mouth, before her eyes narrowed.

"Granger," Draco Malfoy lowly whispered to her. "Don't scream. I'm not going to hurt you."

Hermione, her heart thundering in her chest, feeling as if she was on the verge of a heart attack, took his hand off of her mouth. "_Malfoy_? What the _hell_ are you doing here? You aren't permitted back here! How did you even get –"

"That isn't important," he said hurriedly. "And keep your voice down, will you?"

"Why?" Hermione hissed, looking up at him and feeling very nervous that they were this close. He was still holding her against him, as if making sure she wouldn't get away, and she could feel the warmth of his rigid body against hers. His hand was on her back and she could feel coils of heat blossoming from the very spot he was touching her. She swallowed hard.

The sensible, _Hermione_ thing to do would have been to push him away, sock him in the face, and then nonchalantly get back to her job. But she couldn't think of it at the moment for it seemed that the vodka and the fact that she was this near to Draco Malfoy – who she hated – seemed to rush in all at once, overtaking her, rooting her to this very spot. She felt a wave of indescribable static as she watched his face only inches from hers, and in all of her drunkenness wondered how it would feel to kiss him again. Her head felt as if it had been disconnected from her body and it was so misty inside her skull, yet her body and her heart was thrumming with an influx of feelings she was sure she hadn't felt in… a year.

Oh, goodness, she was _so drunk_.

"Do you honestly want to be caught back here with _me_?" he asked her, and Hermione, though now run by alcohol, managed to catch his point. "And, what in Merlin's name – have you been _drinking_?" He scrunched up his face from the reek of alcohol emanating from her.

"This is a bar," she pointed out coldly, wishing he'd let her go before she did something bad (like punch him) or something even worse (like kiss him). Her throat felt so hoarse now, and so her reply crackled, and she really wished she could get a glass of water. "Now, let me go," she said, suddenly feeling angry again, and a hotness in her eyes. Something flickered across his face and he ignored her.

"Yeah, but you're a bartender."

"Why do you always have to point that out?" she snapped, wanting to yell it at him. She wanted to push him away and scream at him, telling him to never touch her again – because he _couldn't_, couldn't _ever_ after what he'd done to her. Because when he touched her she felt as if she was being burned, and when he touched her she had begun to feel as if nothing had changed from the year before – and everything had, oh, everything most certainly had. And it wasn't fair, no, not to her. It wasn't fair that he could do this to her again.

"So what if it's a lowly job?" she barked. "So what if-if I have to handle people who might throw up on me, or hit on me, or drunks that are so miserable that we have to kick them out because they never want to leave?" she seethed. "What is it that you do, Draco Malfoy, that makes you feel as if you have to point out every single flaw in everybody else's lives?" She felt her chin tremble and could taste the sting of vodka on her tongue. "Because I'd like to know."

"Oh, get over yourself, Granger," he tartly replied. "I didn't mean it that way, if you weren't perceptive enough to notice. Hard as it is to believe, I don't _live_ to jump down your throat, you know." He then called her a word that made her face wrinkle up in annoyance.

Her defenses flared up again. "Well, that's fantastic to know. Now why are you here?" she demanded, hazily wondering if that had been a look of guilt that had appeared in his eyes for a quick second.

He hesitated. "We have to leave," he said briskly. "There's a man out there – no, don't look," he hastily commanded as he prevented her hand from parting the curtains to see. Her hand buzzed from the contact and he had retrieved his own hand before she could slap it away. "You can't look, or else he'll see you and he'll know. But for the past three hours we've been here I've been watching him and all he's done is watch you closely. We need to get out of here _now_."

She remembered and was almost going to tell him that she'd seen him at the market, but didn't, for he was then telling her that he thought something strange was going on. That man was an Auror and it was too suspicious for him to be watching her so closely. There were many Aurors that swayed sides for power. She then recollected a glimpse of the morning paper and her face dawned with realization. It was the same man who had been on the Daily Prophet, the one with all the medals and trophies. "But why is it do you think he's watching me?"

"I don't know, but I don't want you to stick around to find out. We've got to leave. Now."

Hermione nodded, but then stiffened again at the remembrance of his date. "Well, what about Demi Moore?" she asked frostily, looking him straight in the eye.

Draco's face twisted in bewilderment. "_What?"_

"What about your _friend_?"

He looked irritated with her now, his brows furrowing at her. He swore under his breath. "For Merlin's sake, Granger, if you absolutely _have_ to know, she's my aunt, all right? My _aunt_. _Not_ my date, _not_ – whatever else you were thinking. My mother asked me to meet with her to straighten a few things out."

The impact of her embarrassment was immediate. She felt her cheeks color rather vividly and could not look at Draco Malfoy anymore for the sake of her transparency. She slurred out an "Oh." She then moved away from him, slipping his hand off from behind her, still feeling a little awkward, for she had been so incensed with him just minutes ago and now she was agreeing to leave with him. Well, not _actually_, for what she was _actually_ planning was that she was going to go out to the bar and make a run for it herself. And if that Auror followed her, she could take him. Because no way she was going to leave with Draco Malfoy. She was _angry_ with him, remember? And she was also a little drunk, so she was prepared to take her chances.

"Well, then, let me just tell Madam Rosmerta and get my wand and then we can" – she parted the curtain with her hand as she prepared to go back out into the bar; apparently disregarding anything that Draco had just told her. But Draco, who had always been one for fast reflexes, reached out and grabbed her hand before she could actually walk out, and before she could object, there was what seemed to be the loud crack of a whip and they were gone.

ooooo

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Hermione shouted as she stumbled on the ground of the dark alleyway he'd so spontaneously Apparated them to. She didn't mix too well with unexpected side-alongs – much less Apparating While Intoxicated! – so it wasn't a surprise to her when one of her knees buckled and found herself falling on her bum and glaring up at him. She could make out his figure in front of her and heard his voice, but everything seemed muffled, and as she felt her head spin she saw three of him. She had to blink continuously to clear her vision and even then she felt very peculiar. She couldn't seem to quite get her legs to work as well as they used to. She began to stutter. "A-are you aware that I could get _sacked_ for leaving without p-permission? And what about my wand?"

"Don't keep up the pretense," he snarled. "I know what you were about to do – you are as _daft_ as you are transparent when you're drunk, Granger. Now, get up."

He was offering her a hand but she didn't take it, viciously shaking her head until she realized that shaking her head only made the fuzziness worse, and even then it seemed irreversible. She tried to get up but her hands appeared confused, or she was simply too exhausted from this evening, but either way they weren't working. Then she felt something firm clamp around her arm and yank her up. The sudden force pulled her up from the ground but also caused her to lose her balance and fall right into him. She made a face, and when she tried to pull away from him, he wouldn't let her, for suddenly he'd told her to shut up and to be very still.

Hermione froze when she heard a loud, familiar sound just yards away from them. It was awkward for them to be huddling like this, especially when he inched further into the shadows and, hence, took her along with him, but as her face pressed against his shoulder she could hear her pulse rapidly drumming inside her ears. Draco's breaths had gone silent, yet she could still feel it against her hair, and she could swear she could hear his heart pounding with anticipation. His body had gone completely frozen and she shut her eyes and swallowed hard, not believing for a moment that they had managed to get into such an intimate position again.

She heard quiet footsteps and a man mumbling. After a few very long seconds, she heard another crack, and felt Draco exhale with relief. His muscle-tensed body relaxed.

"He followed us," he said to her, and she shivered. "Must be an awfully skilled Auror to be able to track us so quickly."

"Yeah," said Hermione, feeling funny. Her voice came out light and floaty to her. She tried to strengthen her tone but realized that she felt _very_ dizzy. "Thanks. Now will you let go of me, Malfoy? I can take care of myself, you know," she said, yet she tried a little too hard to say such a simple sentence. "And who's to bloody say that I wouldn't have gotten away with it?" she said passionately as she stepped away from him and swayed a little. She gripped the wall for support.

"Because you're drunk," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "And drunk people never get away with anything except being stupid and drunk. What are you doing drinking, anyway? I don't even think you've taken a sip of alcohol until tonight. You obviously can't hold your liquor well," he said, giving her a look of sour disapproval.

Hermione glared at him. "I can hold my liquor just fine. My brain hasn't been affected" – Draco guffawed – "and I can still combat your asinine words with witty remarks, all right?"

"Granger, with each second that passes, you're losing more and more brain cells."

"_What_ is your _problem_?" she suddenly blurted in all of her anger. "What do you _want_ from me, Draco Malfoy?" To be honest, she now hadn't the vaguest clue of what she was saying. Drunk people, you know, they just say stuff. "Showing up at the door of my flat, then showing up at my jobs at the library and now the pub – you ruined my life once already, you know?" she yelled. "What is it? Are you not _satisfied_ with that? Do you want to try again, to see if you can leave me in an even bigger mess than before? Is that really how much of a monster you are? And how in the deepest reaches of _hell_ are you even on our side?" Unknowingly, she began to cry. "After you lied to me?" Her voice cracked.

"It isn't as simple as you think," Draco said, feeling a painful tightening around his ribs. He was stunned at how the topic of her drunkenness had turned into talking about – _this_, a topic he was definitely sure was almost forbidden.

He could hear the hurt in her voice, and maybe this was all just a drunken escapade for her, but – somehow – for him this was very real. He didn't know what to say to her this time, even though he could remember thinking about it countless times this past year. He'd been so ready to combat the Angry! Man-eater! Hermione, but he hadn't counted on catching her when she was drunk and on the verge of tears. But perhaps this was the way it was supposed to be, because Lord knows Hermione Granger was as heavily guarded as Azkaban prison, and were she to be in her normal state of mind right now and un-intoxicated, she would have probably simply walked away with a few biting words of hate and spite. She would never have cried in front of him. Not since he had done what he did to her. Because Hermione Granger was not one to show her true feelings, especially to him, and especially about this.

If she were hurt he would never know it.

It was part of who she was, that unrelenting disability to comprehend forgiveness to those who harmed her as well as the intentional closed off-ness. He hurt her, and now he wasn't allowed a glance into the peephole of her life and feelings because she knew that he would invade it and use it to his advantage. To her, Draco knew that all he was was, in fact, a monster. And maybe that's what it was, that widening rupture in his chest that made his face twist up in slight agony at seeing her like this, so vulnerable, and maybe she was right. He was a monster for doing that to her. But was that ever surprising? No, for Hermione Granger was almost always right. Even about him.

Sometimes.

"I don't believe you," she bit out. "I don't believe you for one second."

"Are you really that dense, Granger?" he reasoned. The truth gurgled up his throat. They had too much of a history for him to keep acting like – well, how he acted with everyone else. Because she was different. Even if she was annoying, she was different. "Can't it be possible that maybe, just maybe, I lied to you because I _couldn't_ tell you the truth? Has it honestly never crossed your mind that maybe I lied because I needed to _protect_ you?"

Hermione made an incredulous sound as she pushed herself away from the wall, walking away, before whirling around to face him again. "_Protect_ me?" she exclaimed, as if she couldn't even consider the fact or else her head would explode. "_Protect_ _me_? Is that all you have to say? That you wanted to _protect_ me? From what?" she yelled. "From _what_? Are you aware that it isn't your _job_ to protect me? And that if I'd wanted any ounce of your protection I would have _asked_ for it? Because that is one of the most nonsensical pieces of rubbish I have ever heard!"

Draco's jaw locked and he was breathing heavily. "Potter protects you. Do you ask for that?"

"That's different," she said.

"_How_? How is it _any_ different?"

"Because he never lied to me! He never had to pen a _fake_ _tattoo_ on his arm! At least he's _honest_ about protecting me! He doesn't go around on secret missions by himself—"

"Has it ever occurred to you that _I'm not Potter_?" he shouted at her.

"Don't make that an excuse!" She was shaking. "You know what? I'm leaving. I can't talk to you. I can't even look at you. Just the mere fact that you're here – _here_, in front of me…" She shook her head as she exited the alleyway. But it was only seconds later that she was back in front of him again, and she was telling him something else. "And, for your information," she told him, and he could see the glossiness of her eyes, "I don't _care_ about your personal life. Go ahead and date old women if you want. I don't care. I don't." And then she left again.

Draco stood against the wall for a minute, trying to take in what had just happened. He cursed. "Granger!" He ran out of the alley, turning the corner and watching her walk away, though not very quickly, for he knew very well that she was still drunk and drunks couldn't even walk in a straight line without good concentration. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Away from you!"

"You're drunk!"

"You're an arse!"

Swearing under his breath, he ran after her and grabbed her arm, twisting her around, and she nearly smacked him in the face from trying to fling her elbow away from his grip. "Let me go," she persistently said, her words a little slurred, trying to slap his hand away. "Let me go or I'll scream! You know I will!"

Draco looked around. The street was completely barren. Even as angry with her as he was now, he couldn't let her go. Because she was wrong. It _was_ his job to protect her.

"Granger," he said through his teeth, "you're drunk. There's a possibility you'll get mugged, or even raped, or abducted by some—"

"I don't care."

"Shut up, because you do care. And I also can't let you go because if they ever find your body lying out here gutted and your organs for sale in some black market, they're going to blame me, and they're going to slaughter me, got it?"

"Let me go!" and she began to flail her body about, trying to get his grip to loosen, and when he did, she fell into an unconscious heap on the floor. She'd passed out. He had been wondering when that was going to happen. Sighing, he mumbled to himself as he crouched down beside her, picking her up into his arms, looking at her face. She was completely wasted, yet even in a drunken faint she still managed to look… decent. Looking ahead with an exasperated look on his face, he called her a psychotic basketcase one more time before Apparating away.

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Be generous. Give reviews. Now, I don't know how you all liked that (oh, I guess you'll just have to click on that 'Submit Review' button below and let me know!) but all I can say is, more Draco and Hermione (and yelling) coming up… 


	7. Attack!

If it was you

**A/N:** So! More excitement for you folks, hopefully. Totally action-packed chapter. Let's just say that at the end of this chapter Harry and Hermione find themselves a little homeless… And also some juvenile delinquent stuff, groping unconscious women, and all this talk about true love is pissing Draco off!

To **Christianne**, who is undeniably cool. I'm gonna miss you, chickadee.

**Attack!**

Draco had rightly concurred that yes, there was a possibility that Potter was going to give him nothing short of hell when he showed up at the door of his flat with Hermione out cold in his arms. He would then have to go along with that whole protective rah-rah he went through, like threatening him to milk him for the truth – no, not that truth, the _truth_. Oh, that's _really_ the truth? You swear? Because I'm going to bloody _kill_ you if it isn't. That whole thing. Draco thought that Potter was almost as psychotic as Granger, if not worse, because it was endearing on Granger _sometimes_ and it was endearing on Potter _never_. Though, striking upon that thought, he looked down at her with a deep scowl_. What sort of stupid idiot would let this lunatic get a job as a bartender, anyway? _For it didn't take a genius to know all the sorts of perverts and knobheads that wasted away in there. But hey, maybe she handed out Anti-Drinking pamphlets with every drink she served and lectured them about the dangers of alcohol to the cerebral functions, or something.

Draco frowned.

It just didn't make sense to him, that was all. Her working as a librarian was at least bearable, and understandable because she always seemed like the librarian type (because of her insane love of books, her dullness… and her insane love of books), but sticking her in a place where all of the nocturnal creeps went out to party? Merlin, Potter must be even stupider than he thought.

"Doesn't even bloody take care of his girlfriend," he grumbled, grunting as he tried to shift her in his arms, walking through the hallway of their flat building. Because if he did, in fact, take _care_ of his girlfriend – blech, if he could he'd vomit all over that word and more – he wouldn't have even let her _think_ about getting a job as a bartender. And, man, Draco Malfoy was a cad, all right – but even he wouldn't have let sodding Hermione Granger be stuck in a full room of alcohol-blooded fools. So, obviously, that was saying something.

When he finally reached their flat door, he used his foot to kick the door, seeing as how his hands were preoccupied holding a certain someone who had gone a little too vodka-enthusiastic. He waited for a few seconds; listening for any sound that might indicate someone was in there. Silence. He knocked again, this time louder, with his foot.

Silence, again.

He swore (because Draco was good at that). He assumed that Potter was working late again at that – what was it again? Oh yeah – Auror's office, or something. He squinted his eyes tightly; grumbling under his breath very unpleasant things about his luck that he was sure – _sure_ – hated him. He opened his eyes and looked down at Granger, who still wasn't showing any signs of consciousness. Sure, she was cute, but what the _hell_ was that going to do to help him get into their flat? He'd try the usual wand tricks but knew better; this was Hermione Granger's and Harry Potter's apartment, remember? The flat of two people who had mental issues where one was unfortunately skilled with all sorts of spells, including complicated protective charms, and one had… well, a butt-ugly scar, which he reckoned had its own protective magical powers of its own, like warding away people with its profound ugliness.

He tried shaking her a little. "Granger," he said, but not too loud, for he was still in a corridor where anyone could overhear. He caught a whiff of her hair. She smelled like vanilla. Draco liked vanilla. But that wasn't important. "Granger, wake up. Wake up, you stupid drunk. How am I going to get into your sodding flat if I'm going to be blasted into oblivion by trying to Apparate in?" She didn't stir one bit. Apparently, she was still out cold. Draco began to wonder if she'd hit her head when she fell and it'd sent her into a coma, or something. He said a very bad word. "You basketcase," he scowled. "Why do you only talk when I want you to shut up and when I _do_ need you to talk you won't bloody tell me _anything_?"

He sighed, looking around, before laying her down on the ground, propping her back up against the wall so she could sit up. He looked at her for a moment, his knees to the floor, and then gently slapped her face.

"Granger. Granger." He had to make sure she wouldn't wake up while he was searching her, because if she did… oh, then today would be a legendary night, for Draco Malfoy would be absolutely _murdered_ by her, without a doubt. When it was clear she would not lapse into sudden consciousness and scare the living shit out of him, he nervously took his hands and patted down her trouser pockets. "Come on, Granger, you've got to have a key here somewhere…" he mumbled to himself as he traveled lower down her legs. Finally, as he was around the ankle area, he felt something. He pulled up her pant leg, rolling it upwards, and bunched down her sock. There he miraculously found a key.

"Clever," he said to himself with a look on his face, holding up the key in front of him. It was warm. He then rolled up her sock again, pulling down her trouser leg, before getting up and fitting the key into the doorknob. The door opened and he let out a sigh of relief before getting back to Hermione and picking her back up. With her in his arms, he went into their flat where the lights flicked on by themselves – some ingenious Muggle invention that sensed motion, he guessed. He used his foot to close the door behind him.

He set her down on the couch and pocketed the key. Then he stood there for a while, watching her. It was particularly odd. He didn't think he ever watched anybody like this before (it had a stalker-ish quality to it that didn't suit him), and he knew very well that if she were conscious she would not be keeping his attention like this. Well, she was a lot more pleasant when she was asleep, that was for sure, for she wasn't glaring at him or spitting at him or cursing his bloodline or being some snarky nut. At least when he saw her this way – not to get sappy, or anything, it was just an observation – he was reminded of the fact that she hadn't _always_ hated him, and she hadn't _always_ been a drinker or a bartender, and she hadn't _always_ been… well, Potter's girlfriend.

Draco grunted.

Potter.

He stepped back and collapsed into the armchair across from where she lay, rubbing his face with his hands, wondering how on earth he had ended up babysitting a passed out Hermione Granger – not to mention the fact that he had had the opportunity to feel her up right outside their flat. Not that he did, because that would have been sick and, well, a terrible thing to do. But still. He _was_ a boy – er, man, you know, he thought about those things. But now he was stuck here until Potter came home, where he would then most likely try and challenge him to a duel for trying to help out his girlfriend, and where Draco would be forced to decline because he was a "good guy" now. At least, that had been what Dumbledore told him, but it's not like Draco would let the man dictate his decisions for him. If Potter wanted to duel him, and Draco knew for certain that he could whip his arse and knock him out cold, then he would do it, just because he could.

He sighed. What was he going to do until then? He couldn't very well just watch Granger sleep, could he? That would be mind-numbingly boring, and he'd heard that rubbish in romance where the men just _loved_ to watch the women they loved sleep… Merlin, that was rubbish. Obviously, those men had issues. Monumental issues – that, and they were insomniacs with nothing else to do. Draco hated those men. Girly men, that was what he called them. It wasn't normal for males to be so sappy but the surprising thing was that there were so many of them walking the streets of Britain now… He shuddered. No, he was not going to watch her sleep. He most certainly was not.

So Draco got up and walked around their flat. He looked at all of their useless Muggle things and picked through Granger's bookshelf – but when he had tried to organize them in the _correct_ order, the books had flown at him and began to beat the living pulp out of them until he had backed away from the premises, when they then calmly slid back into their places in silence. Draco called the bookshelf many things, and none of them were very friendly to the ears. He should have known Granger took extreme measures in making sure that her books were not disturbed.

He smugly walked around, looking closely at all of their quaint Muggle possessions, making faces, and muttering about the space of their flat. It was entirely too small for him (stick over four people in here and he'd already be claustrophobic). He looked in their fridge (yes, Draco Malfoy knew what a refrigerator was) and looked for a beer or something, but the stupid Muggles obviously did not know how to have fabulous alcoholic fun because all he found was orange juice and some other stuff that Draco didn't feel like bothering with. So he marched out of the kitchen, going back to the boring living room. He looked at Granger for a second, seeing if she was still out cold, and sighed when he realized that she was. Running his hands through his hair, he spotted a small pile of photographs on one of the tables.

Normally Draco wouldn't give a cat's nose about photographs, especially about photographs in Harry Potter's apartment. He feared what he would find (naked people pictures, kinky deeds, or just in general, ugly faces) and that was enough to swear off his nosiness in that department. But he disregarded that this time and picked up the pile, looking through it with a passive face, knowing that it had been taken with a Muggle camera since they were all insentient. There they were, unmoving figures in pictures, smiling like happy idiots, entirely boring. He did not even take the time to register some of them, recognizing the Weasleys and Potter and Granger, and happily skipping the ones that already hinted off "Major Potter Moment" with a single glance. But then he came across one picture that he found himself lingering a bit too long on.

It was Granger, and he guessed the picture had been taken quite recently. She was standing on a bridge, smiling happily, with a sweet, little cotton-candy pink sundress on, obviously soaking in and taking advantage of the summer weather and momentary sunshine of London. His eyes traced her features, the curvature of her hips and the wideness of her genuine smile. His eyes roamed across her pale but radiant complexion, and the faint freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. He wondered if Potter had been the one to take this picture, or if she had asked a stranger. Draco stared at the picture. _'Looks like she was having fun,_' he thought to himself, and recalled that Granger didn't have very much of that. Fun. Even when she was drunk. And so it was a very bizarre image to be seeing, to see her happiness perfectly captured and frozen. He hated it. It was a stupid picture. So Draco, looking around, shoved the photograph down his pocket. Then he quickly fixed the pile up to look as it had before.

It was a pitiful thing to do, stealing a stupid picture with some girl on it, especially one with Granger in a pink sundress on it. It was probably the single most depressing, pathetic thing Draco had ever and would ever do in his high maintenance life, and he swore at himself for it, but just the thought of this picture sitting at Potter's desk in his office or wedged into the side of his mirror in his room made him sneer quite majestically. He hated stealing the photo. It was damn depressing. He didn't even like pink. But Granger looked nice and he'd always liked it when she smiled or laughed. So, why _not_? Why not if he wasn't going to get caught _anyway_? It wasn't as if he'd look at it every night or something. He was pathetic, but not that pathetic.

_'Oh, Draco,'_ he heard a voice in his head sigh. _'You are slipping off the slope, you are. Making your way over to Barmy Town.'_ Draco only glowered and grumbled in response. He hated it because it was right.

Just then, he heard the doorknob wriggling. Draco looked up and watched as the door opened, revealing a bewildered Potter in the doorway.

"What in the—" he said, obviously disgruntled by the unlocked door, before he spotted the fabulously unconscious Hermione Granger on the couch and his eyes menacingly flickered up at Draco. He forcefully stepped in, his coat and his briefcase still in his hands. "_What_ the _hell_?" he demanded to Draco.

He then quickly set them aside, heading over to her, but then stopped when he saw that she was breathing. He looked very confused as he looked down at Hermione, who was sleeping on the couch, and then back at Draco. He could tell scenarios and conclusions of what had happened to her were all fitting up in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle now, and he also knew very well that they weren't the good kind. The look on his face was a very good indication of that.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Scarface," drawled Draco, nonchalantly leaning by the table. "She's alive. She just fainted, is all. That's what happens when you party a little too hearty with a bottle of vodka."

"What did you do to her?" Harry asked gravely, looking furious

"What did _I_ do?" Draco snapped, irritated with Harry's constant I'm-Her-Bloody-Protector attitude. _She_ was the one willingly chugging down the poison and _he_ got the blame? "What did _I_ do? You must be out of your bloody mind. _I_ wasn't the one who allowed her to get a job at the Three Broomsticks on Horny Tourists Night. _I_ wasn't the one who didn't teach her about the dangers of drinking. So don't yell at me, all right, Potter? What kind of person are you, anyway? Going about to save the world when you let this lunatic" – Draco nodded his head her way – "get a job as a _bartender_ at the Three Broomsticks?" Draco glared at him. "Obviously not a very _smart_ person. Tell me, when you breathe, does _any_ of that oxygen reach your brain?"

Harry began to walk towards him, not looking very friendly. He ignored Draco's little quip. He was squinting at him. "_Horny_ _Tourists_ – What happened?" he asked, confused, though his eyes deepened in their murky color. It appeared that he had gotten Draco's point, though.

"She was drinking at the job. I Apparated her out. She passed out." He motioned to her on the couch. "Then I Apparated her back here, out of the kindness of my heart." Draco knew it was a highly unconvincing statement, especially that last part, because he didn't even know if he _had_ a heart, much less the kindness to be stored inside it. Both were highly unlikely cases.

Harry merely looked at Draco, as if he was at war with the choice of believing him. He most probably was. But then he looked away and sighed, running one hand through his hair. He sounded tired. Probably was. Poor arsehole looked like hell run over. "Hermione doesn't drink. You know that. She hates drinking. She gives lectures to every person she serves a drink to at the Three Broomsticks."

Draco scoffed quite passionately. "Tell that to the passed out drunk on your couch."

"Look," said Harry almost sharply. "Thanks, all right?"

Draco scowled at him. He didn't sound very thankful.

Git.

"What were you doing there, anyway?" he asked, and he could hear the suspicion in his voice, as well as the gears turning in his head. The tone of his voice and the look he was sending him implied that he thought he had been doing something very unpleasant.

"Not harassing her, if that's what you were thinking."

"Did I say that? I didn't say that." He gave him a serious look. "Listen, Malfoy, I appreciate you bringing her back here and all, but I swear, if you ever –"

"A man was watching her," Draco cut in harshly, definitely not in the mood to hear his asinine threats. "An Auror. I recognized him – he was the one that caught that Death Eater. Front page of the Daily Prophet. Didn't seem like he was thinking about buying her a drink, either. Just thought you should know before you launched off into a full-fledged 'Stay Away From My Girl' monologue that I don't give a single drip of a shit listening to, anyway."

Harry seemed confused which one to remark about first, the Auror or Draco's snake-tongued retaliation. "An _Auror_? What would an Auror be watching Hermione for?" He was genuinely concerned and confused. Then his expression fell away into one of threatening annoyance. "And I'm not sparing you that lecture because you're still a vicious twat and for all I know you could have felt her up in the hallway!"

Draco's eyes widened. How did he _know_ that?

"Bloody _hell_, Potter," sputtered Draco. "Do you have sodding psychic powers or something?"

Harry glared at him. "Malfoy, don't tell me that you—"

"Easy, githole, I didn't," said Draco, yet mystified at Potter's… _magical_ powers. "I'm _telling_ you, I didn't, so stop leering at me," he barked when Harry continued to scowl at him.

"Now, about this Auror…"

"I don't know what his business was with Granger, but I'm guessing he's been keeping an eye on her for quite a while." Draco sobered. "I'll check up on him once I get back to the manor, but it's wise if—"

"Right, Dumbledore, I got it," said Harry. As he said that, Draco was looking at him, and he really sort of pitied him. He looked dead tired. Sort of sad to be bringing all this up on him when he'd obviously had a bad day at the office, plus he had that wretched scar that was just so _ugly_, and he reckoned that it didn't help that much to see his sworn enemy inside his flat with his girl – whatever – passed out on the couch with the possibility that his sworn enemy had felt her up while unconscious. (He didn't, though.) If Draco had been a nicer person, if he'd actually cared about Potter, he would have actually probably apologized or something, like "Sorry your life sucks," or something, but that wasn't exactly true, was it? His life didn't suck at all. Besides the whole my-parents-got-murdered-by-an-evil-wizard-and-now-he's-out-to-get-me-too thing he had going.

Draco nodded at the poor sod, before heading towards the door. He glanced at Granger on the couch but he could feel Potter watching him, so he played it off rather coolly and led himself out. He stepped out into the empty, almost eerily quiet hall, silently closing the door of their flat behind him. And he didn't know why, but he stood there a while. He half expected the door to open behind him and Potter would pop his miserable little head out and call out his name and say, "Stay away from my girl," that whole cliché, and that would make Draco want her even more. Almost like a challenge. But even as he stood there, nothing happened. He heard rustling inside their flat, but no little miserable head popped out the door.

And Draco, sighing, finally left Cheshire Fox Flats, failing to spot a pair of eyes that trailed after him.

ooooo

The next morning, Draco's issue of the Daily Prophet was delivered straight to his desk by one of the subscription owls, as usual. He was still trying to find out about that Auror who had been watching Granger, and so far he'd found out his entire history (not bad, he had to say – although Draco found that he immediately disliked him; they had a little Hero Stalker boy on their hands) as well as his magnificent feats with the ministry. He'd caught a Death Eater, Morrison, two months ago, which was impressive, but Draco had a very uncanny feeling that there was something going on that didn't quite match up.

Because of his investigative business with the Auror, he wasn't able to read up on the wizarding world's events until much later on. And, needless to say, once he had settled down to read the bolded letters of the front page, he found himself frozen in his seat with shock. There was an enlarged picture of a man in the front of the paper with a pudgy face and a grisly beard, smiling and laughing.

**_MYSTERIOUS DEATH_**, the headlines exclaimed. **_CONTROVERSIAL POTION MAKER FOUND DEAD AT HOME. Sources say that a bright light had shown through Charleston VanMussen's manor before finding him murdered the next morning. No clues yet on any potential suspects…_**

Draco's eyes rapidly read the lines.

…_**An ongoing investigation… suspected to be cult handiwork… **_

"Oh, _fuck_," he whispered.

ooooo

The door opened to Albus Dumbledore's office, uncovering an anxious yet grim Harry Potter.

"What's going on?" he asked with urgency in his voice, sensing the grim ambiance of the circular room and seeing the grave and slightly annoyed pale face of Draco Malfoy. Dumbledore had his hands folded on his desk, looking contemplative and solemn. "I got an owl to come immediately, and –"

"Sit down, Potter," said Draco, almost a little too imperiously. Draco looked particularly eaten up about something, and there was a crease betwixt his furrowed brows that hinted quite clearly that something terrible had happened. Harry took the seat in front of their former headmaster's desk, shooting serious glances at the both of them, before Draco began to speak aggressively. "Did you read the Daily Prophet this morning?"

"Er – no," said Harry. "I didn't have time."

"Take a look at it," said Draco, throwing the issue at his chest. "Front page. Headlines."

Harry nodded, opening up the issue and his green eyes flickering behind his spectacles, reading the content. When he was done, he looked up at Draco. "What has this got to do with me?" he asked.

"I'm afraid," said Dumbledore seriously, "that it concerns you quite a bit. I wouldn't expect you to recognize Charleston VanMussen, for he was never one of the school's priorities to mention, nor was he in any textbooks. He… ah, well, he was a very controversial man in many ways. Perhaps the most infamous of his works as a potion maker was his theory about the Absolution potion. It was a potion he had spent forty years researching and attempting to make, claiming it would be able to make anyone ten times more powerful and even undefeatable when it was finished. Of course, he had already gained a reputation by then, and none of the critical masses even attempted to believe him. He was what you could call an impulsive drunk, and everyone had proclaimed him to be a bit mad.

"By then, ten years had already gone by and Charles was already nearing his death bed. But then a rumor began to erupt that someone had come to him with a proposition. He would allow him to prolong his life as long as he finished the Absolution potion and gave it to him. Apparently somebody out there was so desperate for power that he believed a man that everybody thought was loony." Dumbledore looked at Harry through his half-moon glasses. "Do you know who that man was, Harry?"

Harry was grim. "Voldemort?" he said lowly.

Albus nodded. "Right you are. Voldemort. Now, this was at a time when he had terrorized the entire wizarding world and had enough power, which would certainly bring up the question of why. _Why_ would he be desperate for more power? Because he had foreseen his defeat, that is why. He didn't see exactly how he was going to go, but he had heard the prophecy, and even a man as terrible as Tom Riddle succumbed into mild episodes of paranoia."

"So you're saying that Voldemort is going to try and use the potion to kill me?" said Harry, a little skeptical of the idea. It seemed, to Harry, a cowardly thing to do. Potions was of the sissy variety. No offense.

"It's a little trickier than that," Dumbledore replied. "See, the potion alone didn't take forty years to make. It took much less. It took years of research to see if the idea was plausible, yes, but VanMussen was batty, so most of the time he took advantage of his prolonged life enjoying being a drunk and lying. But you're here because you need to know that they need _you_ to make this potion. VanMussen's theory was that he could brew a potion that could make any person more powerful than he already was, getting energy by drawing blood from his competent enemy and his enemy's mate and mixing it in with some memories from a pensieve."

"But is that even possible?" asked Harry.

He smiled. "Anything is possible, Mister Potter. Of course, we are not absolutely sure he is going in that direction. VanMussen could have been killed by anybody – his drinking habits created many enemies. But I wouldn't put it beyond Voldemort. After all, one of his best subjects in school was Potions."

"But you mentioned a mate," said Harry. Draco noticeably stiffened in his seat. "What—"

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore. "I was wondering when we would stumble upon this topic." He glanced at the two boys in front of him, sensing discomfort. "This is a very serious situation, I trust you to understand that. If Voldemort is, in fact, planning to use the Absolution potion, he will be keeping a very close eye on you. Yes, it is true he will need the blood of your mate in order for the potion to work. If he receives the wrong blood, the potion will only weaken him – it may even be fatal." He shifted his eyes to Draco, a strange look in his eye. "So we will need to take some precautions. Mister Malfoy has informed me that a young Auror has been spotted watching Miss Granger quite avidly, and while I cannot be certain about the relevance of that to VanMussen and the potion, it only further encourages me to ask you some questions about your relationship with Miss Granger."

Both boys were taut in their seats. Draco unknowingly clenched his jaw as he watched Potter from the corner of his eye.

"It is imperative that you answer my questions with nothing but honesty, Mister Potter, I hope you understand. It will only be of help to us. We need to know. You see, Voldemort not only needs your mate – that word is an understatement; anybody can be your mate. He needs your true love. It is a vast cliché, I know, but love is an important factor in spells. You do remember your mother, don't you, Harry? And the Sacrifice? Love can make or break a spell, even a potion. It is vital in magic in general. And while there is no knowing for certain who anyone's true love is, this is the best we've got." He paused, and Draco found himself listening to his own breaths booming in his ears, and Potter was looking straight at their former headmaster with a hard expression.

"Do you love her, Mister Potter?"

Draco felt something clench inside his chest.

"I think it's because we're living together," said Harry, and there was a little shard of pain in his voice. "Voldemort thinks she's it, doesn't he? Now he's after her, too?" He began to laugh. It was a hollow sort of laugh, metallic and unfeeling. "We aren't even involved!"

Well. That was new.

Harry Potter was angry. It was blatantly obvious to the common bystander. There were slight veins bulging out in his white neck that hinted some major suppression was going on, and the livid look on his face and the dark tone of his voice helped a little, too. No one was a stranger to Harry Potter's miserable rage.

But that wasn't what disturbed Draco. What disturbed him was that they had led him on all this time – Potter and Granger, making it out like they were together. Was it all just a living charade to rub it all in Draco Malfoy's face? Was Granger really all that clever? Draco scowled. He didn't know, he honestly didn't. He wouldn't put it beyond Granger to make up such a cunning plan, but it seemed too underhanded. Then again, he hadn't thought she'd go around punching men, either, so he was at a loss. She'd become so unpredictable. He didn't know whether he liked that or not. There used to be a time when he could have predicted exactly what she was going to do – and be frighteningly right. But now, learning that they hadn't been romantically involved at all caused a fresh bloom of suggestive thoughts to erupt inside his head. That was before, however, the rumbling voice of Albus Dumbledore swept in with a weed whacker and whacked the living pulp out of said hopeful ideas.

"Do you love her, Mister Potter?"

And it didn't matter anymore. Because that was when Draco realized that no, it wasn't about Draco, or Granger – it was about Potter. And if Potter loved Granger, then she was his true love. Which was absolute rubbish to him. Because what if she _wasn't_? What if true love didn't even _exist_ – was there any _proof_ true love existed? What if Charles VanMussen _was_ just a nutty alcoholic and he didn't even _have_ the Absolution potion? What then? And why'd it have to be Hermione Granger, anyway? Why couldn't it be, like, that Ginny Weasley girl? Or-or Hannah Abbott? Because Draco Malfoy seriously thought that Harry Potter wasn't man enough to handle Hermione Granger.

"Just answer the question, Potter," Draco found himself gritting out, tired of this discussion. He begrudgingly decided he didn't believe in true love because it was too sugary and complex for him to understand. "It's a simple question. Do – you – love – her?"

Harry looked down, silently sighing, reluctant, before telling them quietly that yes, yes he did, and Draco pressed his lips together in a scowl, mentally grumbling to himself that this was going to be hell.

Dumbledore looked at him. "Very well then. We must make the necessary preparations."

ooooo

Draco Malfoy was pacing the room when there was a knock on the door. He had presented all of the information he had gathered about the Auror, Erick Bell, and then spent the last hour and a half trying to figure out a liable plan as well as find that hidden tangent between Bell and Voldemort. They still weren't sure exactly if Bell was working for the Dark Lord, and even if he was, he was risking very much as a highly-established and reputable Auror (which could also make a good alibi and surely deflect any possible suspicions, so it was foolproof if he was working for Voldemort). But why else would his keen eye have been on Granger that night? Draco had also found out from Potter that Granger herself had been feeling as if she had been being watched all this week. It all seemed to match up. But surely Voldemort would not be so foolhardy in his operations?

It was a difficult thing to put together. Charles VanMussen murdered, the creator of the surreal Absolution potion. It would bring power that Voldemort needed. Granger being watched. Potter loved Granger. The pieces seemed to fit. But there was something a little off-color about it… Draco just couldn't put a finger on what…

Unless… unless Voldemort _wanted_ them to think that he was going to use the Absolution potion – to distract them.

Draco sighed. There were simply too many possibilities. They needed another lead, something that could narrow their options down a little.

"Come in," Dumbledore announced, and the door immediately opened as a frantic-looking Minerva McGonagall glided in. Her hat was a little askew and there was something uncanny in her presence that caused both Harry and Draco to halt in their spots, mid-action, watching intently as she handed Dumbledore a piece of folded parchment.

"Albus," she said, and there was a little tremor in her usually stern voice. Draco was reminded then of the time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened and had to shake off the memory to focus. "You need to read this. It was just sent to me a few minutes ago. It's urgent."

Dumbledore, sensing the profound graveness of the situation, took the parchment from her, unfolded it, and began to read. There was a rigid, cold silence that eclipsed the room, as the two boys suddenly felt something odd in the air. They both watched him, unmoving, feeling an ominous constricting around their throats. He put the letter down with a grim look on his aged face, triggering alarm to flicker onto their faces and their hearts to pound heavily inside their chests.

"It's from your mother," he said to Draco. "There's been an attack."

ooooo

They immediately Apparated to an abandoned street corner directly beside Cheshire Fox Flats. As soon as the soles of Harry Potter's shoes had slapped down on the moist ground, he had launched his body out of the alley, sprinting towards the entrance and running up the stairs of their apartment building. Draco was not far behind. They didn't know whether Dumbledore was running behind them, which would have been something of a silly sight (the man wore dresses; of course it was funny), for all they heard was the roaring white noise and the rasping drumming inside their ears. But it was no surprise to them that once they had reached the hallway, Albus Dumbledore had been right beside them. Harry and Draco ran down the corridor, ignoring the possible ruckus they were making with their feet pounding down against the carpet, and not stopping until Harry had thrown the door of his flat open.

Just as they had feared, it was unlocked.

As the door slowly swung open, it exposed a terrible sight. The inside of his flat was completely scorched. Each inch of his once white-as-snow walls had been burnt entirely and was now the color of charcoal; they could also still see the smoke rising from the floor. The ground underneath their feet was still crisp from the attack and sizzled as they stepped inside. The three men looked around their environment with a shocked expression, taking a moment to register the destroyed ruins of what used to be Harry Potter and Hermione Granger's housing quarters.

Draco went ahead and observed the wreck, sifting through a few things with his hands, burning himself once or twice from things that had still not cooled down. There were shards of broken glass that crunched underneath their soles, furniture absolutely destroyed, papers and pieces of the curtains that Draco had to stomp on for there were still little blue flames dancing atop of them.

"Looks like they were looking for something," Draco said aloud, noticing that the flat looked like it had been ransacked before being burnt.

"It was no ordinary fire," said Dumbledore. "There's an odd smell in the air that isn't normal among fire fumes."

Just then, Harry Potter said something, his eyes wide with realization. "Hermione," he croaked, his voice raspy. His face looked pained.

Draco's spine shot straight, looking at Harry with alarm. His heart had suspended its beat. "What?"

"She's not here," said Harry forcefully, the fullness of his voice spilling out now, and he was beginning to breathe rapidly. "She was hung over, and she didn't feel well, so I left her here, and Madam Rosmerta owled and said that she was sacked. She was here when it happened – I can't believe I left her –"

"You left her here _alone_?" Draco almost shouted.

Harry Potter could not respond as coherently as he would have liked to. All he knew was that he felt something hot and sour burning a hole straight through his chest and everything seemed a little fuzzy now because of the lightness that was overtaking his head. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to compose himself. "Hermione," he said again. "We've got to find her."

Suddenly, Harry felt something clamp down on his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see Draco Malfoy accosting him painfully. His silver eyes were molten gray, mottled with rage, and his face angry in color. "Don't tell me that, Potter! Don't tell me they took her!"

"Now, Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy, we do not know anything for certain yet –" interrupted Dumbledore, but even something cracked in his voice. He did not sound as certain as he usually did. "We do not know who did this—"

"Are you mad, old man?" shouted Draco, directing his rage towards somebody else. "Of _course_ we know who did this! The Death Eaters! Voldemort! Who else would need Granger?" Draco, glaring at the other two people in the room, drew his wand. "I'm going to try and track them. I can find her."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid, Mister Malfoy, that you are not yet so advanced as to successfully attempt –"

"They took Hermione," said Harry lowly. "I think he can try whatever he wants."

Dumbledore scowled at them; discontent with the display of 'unity' they were showing now. Both Draco's and Harry's wands then flew out of their hands, landing perfectly in his palm, where he then firmly held them. Draco yelled out in protest.

"Be sensible, you two," he said sternly. "You don't even have a _clue_ where they could have taken her. What we need to do now is think about a plan of action, get some more information, and call in the Order –"

"But they could be using her for the potion right now!" yelled Harry. "What do you expect we do, then? When the potion is all finished and Voldemort is undefeatable?"

"Au contraire, Mister Potter," said Dumbledore. "They don't have you."

They were silent.

This didn't help Draco. "They're using her as bait," he said in an angry tone. "They'll get what they want from her first, and then they're going to use her as bait for Potter. That's what they're going to do."

"That sounds like a very possible hypothesis, Mister Malfoy. However, I do think that" – Dumbledore's eyes flickered to behind them, the once gloomy blue of his pupils relaxing. There was a sudden twinkle in them as he cut short his sentence and smiled. "Ah, but I'm afraid you are very mistaken. How lovely you could join us, Miss Granger, we were just talking about you."

Harry and Draco froze in their spots, not quite comprehending what their former headmaster had said, before they both whirled around to see Hermione Granger standing in the doorway, wide-eyed at their ash-ravaged home.

"Harry," she said shakily, frantically looking around, hopelessly fearful and bewildered by the scene, "_what_ is going on?"

Draco had to strategically look away as Harry Potter ran over to his flat mate and they embraced quite tightly – quite sappily, in his opinion – and found himself holding his tongue, that and many others things. His chest was tight as he heard Potter proclaiming how happy he was to see her, and nothing would ever be the same for any of them, he knew, after Potter had admitted his love for Granger in Dumbledore's office. Not even for Draco. He was plunged in quite a shitty position, really. What were the odds that one entire year later they'd _still_ be fighting over the same girl? What was so obnoxiously special about Granger that she'd managed to catch the affections of two both highly influential men – one called Draco Malfoy definitely being better than the other? And why did Draco still find himself looking at her with that panging beat in his chest when he could have sworn – _sworn_ – that when he'd first laid eyes upon her again with her stupid sunflower oven mitts with Potter after one whole year that he'd absolutely, inscrutably _despised_ her?

And he could have expertly denied it. Draco Malfoy and Denial were best mates, so it wouldn't have been a problem at all. But he just reckoned that there was just something about her that brought out all the ugly truths in him. Even before.

So there it was. Perhaps the single ugliest truth he ever had to conceal. Draco Malfoy, even after all this time, still had a thing for Hermione Granger.

Oi vey.

When the happy couple finally released from their little hug, Draco still couldn't quite look at Granger without that twinge in his chest that made him want to punch Potter in the jaw. But he noticed that in that little stretch of silence afterwards, she'd looked at him and she'd been a bit startled. He didn't know if she remembered the night before, maybe not, but she didn't look angry with him. Perhaps just stiff-lipped. But in the corner of his eye he made out a strange expression that he could have sworn he hadn't seen in years flicker across her face for one quick-as-lightning second, her cheeks a little pink, before it disappeared and she turned to Dumbledore, asking what had happened.

Potter ignored her, surprising them all with a cutting tone. "Where were you?"

"I went over to the Burrow to have some of… erm, Fred's hangover potion," she mumbled ashamedly. "But I was only gone for about ten minutes, tops, I don't understand how this could have happened –" She was beginning to panic.

"It isn't your fault, Miss Granger. We received an owl about an attack, and came over as quickly as we could. We are just relieved that you had capital timing; had you stayed a minute more you could have been hurt, or worse, taken. We have reason to believe that the Death Eaters could have been responsible for this, but we need more information. But, for now, we must get you and Mister Potter out of here. I'm sure one of your neighbors have called the authorities by now, and there is also the risk of somebody coming back, so we must leave. We will all meet at the Malfoy Manor. We will discuss everything there." He gave everybody a firm look. "I have disabled the Anti-Apparating charms Miss Granger has put up – which were very strong and troublesome, by the way, good job" – he winked – "for we cannot risk stepping outside and being seen."

Draco stoically nodded, noticing the way Potter was now protectively holding onto Granger. He also noticed with a spark of intrigue when he let go of her quickly, as if he had just realized what he was doing and thought it to be unnecessary – as if he had been burned.

"Mister Malfoy's manor has exclusive Apparating intelligence, so that should prevent from anyone unwanted following us. Now, we shan't waste anymore time. On the count of three. One, two, three!"

And they all disappeared.

ooooo

Draco arrived first. Then came Dumbledore, and then Potter, then Granger. She was entirely serious as she appeared beside Draco, her jaw locked tight, as if the graveness of the situation had just hit her as soon as she had to Apparate back to the Ice Palace. It had to be something, really, if even Dumbledore's office wasn't safe enough and they had to resort to hiding out at Draco's place. She seemed only a bit perturbed by their meeting spot, her face viciously unyielding, as they all settled into the parlor.

Oddly, Potter silently insisted on keeping his space from her.

"I have just informed the Order," said Dumbledore. "They will be here shortly. Our priority is to find out exactly who attacked your flat, Harry, and what their purpose was. It is also imperative to find out any sliver of news from Professor Snape – if there has been any mumblings or meetings or information we must know. We will all get sorted once everyone arrives. And where is your mother, Draco?" asked Dumbledore. "I trust she is coming?"

Draco nodded. "She's with Lupin and the Order."

"Very well then. But for the meantime, please do not worry. Do not resort to any rash behavior, for that will only make everything worse. Everything will be revealed in due course. There is no guarantee we will be able to conjure up a plan of action today, but we will certainly try. However, before any of that, what we must figure out is how to protect both of you. Mister Potter, it is no longer safe for you to be working at the office – you too, Miss Granger. Do not worry, for I will notify them myself. Both of you must avoid public exposure for as long as needed, so that will require you to lodge in a place that is promisingly safe and recluse."

"What about the Burrow?" asked Hermione, yet immediately after she suggested it she felt herself color with her stupidity.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid that cannot be, Miss Granger. The Burrow is too obvious of a place to put you in. In fact, we must now evacuate the Weasleys and put them in a temporary home – they are in danger, as well. It has to be a place where no one can guess – somewhere very unlikely."

"So I suppose Hogwarts is out of the question, then," said Harry.

"You are right. We cannot put you there for two reasons: the possible danger it might put upon our students, and the possible danger it might put upon you. Perhaps the second place Voldemort would look for you is Hogwarts."

"Then where do you suggest we stay?" asked Granger, her brow crinkling with worry. "Surely you can't just shut us up somewhere on an isolated island!"

"No, of course not," smiled Dumbledore. "While that would be a very good idea, I have thought of somewhere better."

"Where?"

"Why, where else but the Malfoy manor?"

They gaped at the old man.

"_W-what_?" sputtered Draco, certainly not remembering discussing any of this with the old coot before. He could hear Granger stammering out the same question herself. Potter was silent and did not seem to have any objections to the notion; he appeared to have considered the possibility already. Draco would have been shocked at his peace (considering the fact that if this idea was forced, Granger would have to be sleeping in the same house as his highly attractive archenemy) had he not already been too occupied with trying to figure out how this was possible without anybody being physically harmed.

"Stay _here_?" exclaimed Hermione, her face white with horror.

"Yes, well, why not?" asked Dumbledore. "It is an ingenious place to put you. Nobody would guess Mister Malfoy to be the host of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. It would be the best choice."

"But Professor Dumbledore!" said Hermione, her cheeks now flaring with passionate color, her eyes flickering to Draco before snatching them back. "Surely there is an alternative! We would only be intruding –"

"Oh, I'm certain Mister Malfoy wouldn't mind," he said, waving it off.

"On the contrary," said Draco, his stomach overcome with a flurry of disconcerting sensations, but was then cut off as several cracking sounds began to barrage the room. One by one, the members of the Order appeared in the parlor where they were, their conversation rapidly dwindling away as Molly Weasley, the last to appear, nearly tackled down Potter and Granger in her hysterical crying.

"Now, now, settle down," said Dumbledore, standing up amongst the crowd of people looking serious and grave. His face was sketched menacingly. "We have important things to discuss."

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Finally! Some Draco POV! Must apologize to those of you who aren't particularly fond of Harry/Hermione, but I assure you that there will be none of that in here – Harry's feelings for Hermione is as far as it goes. (That and this other thing, but I won't tell you that till later.) Don't forget to **REVIEW**, my pretties! 


	8. This Place is a Prison

If It Was You

**A/N:** Chapter title borrowed from the ever-ingenious Death Cab for Cutie. Thanks to **Johnnie Blue**, my wonderful beta, and thanks to all of you, for being my constant inspiration. In here: Hermione finds out the biggest Malfoy secret! Now read the chapter!

To **Mimi**, who has been very generous in offering her assistance for my website to my technically-disabled bad self. Cheers to you.

**This Place is a Prison**

"… A very grave situation, indeed," said Remus, agreeing with Dumbledore while eyeing both Harry and Hermione. "But what I don't understand is why Hermione didn't tell anyone that she thought she was being watched."

There was silence in the room as everyone turned their eyes to Hermione, who looked down in shame. She'd thought telling someone would have been ridiculous; it didn't seem so ridiculous now. "Well," she said quietly. "I thought I was just being paranoid. I didn't want to worry anyone. Certainly these things happen all the time, I mean, anyone could have a stalker in the Muggle world –" she said pathetically, before Lupin cut her off with some dry humor.

"So apparently Miss Granger thinks having a stalker is okay," said Remus amusedly.

"This is serious," said Mister Weasley. "Please be serious, Remus, the children just got their home destroyed! What could be next – who knows!"

"It's quite obvious what they're trying to do," came the monotone, dank drawl of Severus Snape, looking very dissatisfied with the situation. "They're trying to draw Potter and Granger out."

"But surely they'll think that –"

"Exactly. That they'll be seeking refuge somewhere else. The most obvious idea for them would be for Potter and Granger to lodge at Hogwarts; I believe they're counting on that. But their attentions will shift once they find out they aren't there. Then they're going to start hunting them down."

"So where on earth will they stay?" Misses Weasley cried.

"I'm afraid I already have the answer to that question," responded Albus Dumbledore. "Mister Potter and Miss Granger will be staying here, at Malfoy manor. They will be safe here, and the Death Eaters will surely not guess that they are hiding here – at least, not for a while. Its sole promise is that it will buy us some time, which is certainly what we need."

The Order was quiet, each of them staring at Dumbledore. Hermione was looking around, mentally begging for one of them to say something.

"I think that's a capital idea," said Narcissa Malfoy, who was sitting down beside Tonks, who nodded her head in agreement. "I certainly do agree with you, Albus. The Dark Lord wouldn't guess it."

There were a few mumbles and nods amongst the other members, and Hermione silently sighed, before looking over at Harry. She noticed he had a very taut and determined expression on his face.

"What about you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. "Do you think it is a good idea?"

Snape pursed his lips before answering in his same drawl. "It is the best choice we have. I don't see how it can be of any harm."

Draco scoffed. His head of house never could say a straight out Yes.

They moved on quickly. "We searched the house," Dumbledore continued on. "It appeared as if they had been looking for something. I've asked Harry if he thought he had anything they could need, but he said that he didn't have anything of possible significance to them."

"I doubt the Death Eaters were involved in the ransacking," Severus said. "It is too… unlikely. They have been quiet for the past months; it would be strange for them to suddenly strike without my knowledge. And I haven't heard of anything that the Dark Lord might be wanting from Potter. Besides the obvious fact that he wants to kill him," he said, sneering at Harry.

"Very troubling," said Mister Weasley. "The possibility of two evils out for Potter. I daresay this is going to be very difficult to digest," he said with a deeply concerned and worried look on his face. He'd always considered himself the second father to both Harry and Hermione.

"I'll ask around at the ministry," said Tonks. "I have an odd feeling about that Auror bloke you mentioned before."

"Very good, Nymphadora. Now, there is also something else we must discuss in length. Charleston VanMussen was murdered last night."

There were numerous loud gasps from the Order. Misses Weasley had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

"Are you sure?" choked out Mister Weasley. "_Charles_?"

"It was in the Daily Prophet. Young Malfoy informed me of it. Good thing he did, too, or else we would have missed our first possible lead. You are all aware of Charles' theory, am I correct? About his work on the Absolution potion?"

"Who hasn't?" one of the members said.

"I have a suspicion that Voldemort may have been behind the murder. There was that rumor, long ago… although it was never confirmed, for his downfall came almost immediately after, I have a feeling that he still believes in the potion. It is a highly plausible idea."

"The Dark Lord does have tremendous skill in Potions," Severus said lowly. "I cannot disagree. But I cannot be certain. The Dark Lord has not called a meeting in months. I can't say I am not worried," he said, his swampy black orbs flickering to Dumbledore. "Either this is something vast or he suspects disloyalty among one of us. Still, it proves very inconvenient at this time. We need more information."

"You are right, Severus. We cannot go into this blindly. That is why we are buying time. For the potion to work, Voldemort will need both Mister Potter and Miss Granger, as well as his pensieve."

Many pairs of eyebrows rose at the mention of Hermione.

"You mean—"

"Yes, that is what I mean," said Dumbledore, "but that is beside the case. The Auror may have been watching Miss Granger on this idea, as well – he just may be on our side. But we cannot take any risks. Meanwhile, if they do discover that the Malfoys are hiding what they need – if they find both Mister Potter and Miss Granger – we are sure to lose everything."

"What exactly are you saying, Albus?" said Minerva McGonagall.

"I am saying that it is time for Mister Potter to own up to his abilities. Remus," he said, turning to him, "you will be taking Mister Potter with you to a secluded place called Flockstaff Island. You are well educated in the Dark Arts and the ways to battle them. There you will be teaching him and training him in everything you know. Mister Potter, you will have to work hard," he said, looking at Harry with a firm gaze. "Which means that Miss Granger," he turned to Hermione, "you will be staying here with Mister Malfoy."

Hermione's eyes widened. "_What_? I have to stay _here_?"

"It is for your own good, to be divided. That way if the Death Eaters find out about your whereabouts, they cannot have the both of you. You must understand, Miss Granger. This is a time of high alert. You must be separated. There is also the possibility of distractions. Mister Potter must focus. It is important for him to focus."

"But –" said Hermione, her eyes flashing wildly. "Certainly I have to be trained as well! I'm going to fight with you!"

Many members of the Order looked down and scratched their heads, hiding doubtful looks.

Hermione watched them with an incredulous expression. "You've got to be _joking_! You expect me to just _wait_ here while Harry's out training and everyone else is doing something _important_ –"

"But you'll be doing something important too," said Remus. "You'll be waiting here like a good girl."

Wrong answer. Her face clearly signaled this as her brows furrowed angrily and her mouth warped into a fierce glower. "I am _not_ staying here. I am _going_ with Harry. I am going to _train_ and _fight_ at the Final Battle along with the rest of you."

"Oh, Hermione, shut up," said Harry. But what was also surprising was the fact that another voice had joined Harry's effort in promptly telling her to be quiet – Draco Malfoy's vicious bark had been audible in the scold. Narcissa looked at her son with raised blond brows, but he did not notice, for he was too busy glaring at Hermione Granger.

"Miss Granger," snarled Severus Snape, "this is no time for you to be acting like a petulant child. You are _staying_ here with Mister Malfoy, even if it means we have to hide your wand, tie you up, and gag you, do you understand? Perhaps you are only battling our expectations of you, but there are _lives_ at stake here. Not everything revolves around you trying to prove yourself to the world. So _cease_ your useless arguments and let us move on."

Hermione's face was a vibrant red, scowling at Snape. "I _realize_ there are _lives_ at stake here, _thanks_," she said through clenched teeth, "but I really do insist that I'd be of much better help out there fighting than _sitting_ here and _waiting_."

"I disagree," retaliated Snape.

There were mumbles and nods of agreement among the other members.

"I can't believe this!" Hermione cried. "I simply cannot!"

"Miss Granger, your cooperation is needed. But we must be firm and forceful. You are staying here. I apologize, but that is our final word about this. I do hope that someday you will understand why we had to do this," Dumbledore said quietly, sympathetically. "Sometimes our own desires to be useful blind us from seeing what is truly required of us." Dumbledore's intense blue gaze then shifted to Harry.

"Now, Mister Potter, you will be leaving early tomorrow morning. I expect that is enough time for you to have your goodbyes in order. Do not worry about informing Mister Weasley – you won't be gone too long, I hope. Just long enough to get you ready."

Harry only nodded, not saying a word, ignoring the look that Hermione was sending him of utter helplessness.

ooooo

"Why didn't you say something?" fumed Hermione as soon as she and Harry had entered his temporary room in the manor. "Why didn't you – you could have at least stuck up for me, you know!" she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "Surely you don't think it's the best thing for me to be cooped up in here doing nothing while you're—"

"You really don't get it, do you, Hermione?" Harry said in a sharp tone, his back still turned to her. "They're looking for _both_ of us. We _have_ to be separated. Having one of us is always going to be better than having both of us."

"But I want to fight!" she insisted.

"And maybe you will!" said Harry, whirling around to face her with narrowed emerald eyes. "But this is not the time. This is _not_ that time, do you understand, Hermione?" His face was so close to hers now, having taken a few steps towards her, and she could feel his frenetic breaths against her face, Hermione looking straight through the slight shine of his glasses and into his livid eyes. Her face was stony, watching him, as he sighed and stepped back, sighing, running one hand through his tousled hair. "For once in your life, Hermione, don't be difficult. Just… don't. You could have been taken today, you know? We were worried sick about you. And we can't risk that anymore. You're in danger now." His voice sounded scornful and resentful. "We can't risk that anymore."

"But, Harry," she said, feeling something hot and dry burning through her throat. Her tone was beseeching. "I just want to help. You know I do."

"And you can do that," he told her, "by staying here. Malfoy's going to take care of you here. I trust him."

"Oh, don't lie to me, Harry," said Hermione in a stern voice. "Please at least spare me that."

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"You, of all people," said Hermione harshly, "don't have a single drip of respect towards Malfoy. How on _earth_ is it that you're telling me that you trust him?" she scoffed. "Now?"

"Because I have to," he snapped. "Sometimes you just have to trust people, all right, Hermione? And maybe you should try that once in a while. Trusting people. I've heard it helps you get out of a lot of shitholes in life."

"I don't believe you," she said hoarsely, her eyes starting to burn.

Harry's gaze turned to ice. "You don't have to." Then he paused, averting his eyes to the floor, before looking back up at her. "Is that why you're so scared to be left here alone? Because of Malfoy?"

"He can be on anyone's side," she said darkly. "You know that."

Harry's expression softened just a touch. He seemed to be analyzing her, as he looked square at her face, his presence now a little daunting. "He brought you back to the flat, you know, and he stayed with you until I got there. You passed out." A mildly perplexed look then waved over him. "Why were you even drinking in the first place?"

"T-that is none of your business!" Hermione sputtered. "And I don't see how Malfoy's acts of pretend chivalry have anything to do with this! I can fight! I just don't understand why they're acting like this is still the 1800's – women can kick some bloody arse too, you know! I'm just as good as any of the men here!"

"You just don't get it, Hermione," said Harry, shaking his head. "This isn't about you being good enough. I'm sure you're as good as any of them. But you don't have a choice. I don't have a choice. You _have_ to stay here. Even if I wanted to bring you, I couldn't. It'd be too much of a risk, and a burden. You heard what Dumbledore said. I need to focus. I'm already sorry I got you involved in this. Can't you just cooperate? For once?"

Hermione sighed, her teeth still clenched. She was looking away. "Fine. Fine. But I won't stay peacefully."

Harry cracked a smile. "Didn't say you had to."

Hermione looked at him for a moment, before managing to laugh a little, her chuckles weak and forced. She walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down, and Harry soon followed. They were quiet for a while, staring at the sliver of moonlight that had eluded the thick velvet curtains. They were in a vast, slightly chilly room. Hermione wasn't surprised. She'd even expected the manor to be made of ice way back when. She'd gotten over that whimsical fact, but the coldness of this place still never managed to overwhelm her. They were sitting in darkness, for neither had bothered to turn on the lights in all of their hasty arguing, and even when both realized that fact, neither Harry nor Hermione got up to turn them on.

It was one of those moments that could have done perfectly without lights. One of those moments where she was sure everything was meant to be this way, because it certainly felt like it, like she wasn't supposed to move and neither was he. It was an uncanny feeling, bizarre at most. But she could not help but feel a deep throaty sadness slowly inch over her, knowing that her best friend was going to be leaving her here, alone – voluntarily, at that. She wasn't resentful, though, because she perfectly understood the situation although she had acted so petulantly back there. All that time she argued she'd heard the voice of reason in the back of her head, crowding in around her ribs, but sometimes – that time – she persisted on her ridiculousness.

Because, yes, maybe she was a little bit scared.

The manor was a big, scary place full of shadows. But what scared her most was its inescapable owner: Draco Malfoy. That was what scared her shitless. She got so rash around him, and certainly the contents in her head seemed to reach a boiling point twenty times more quickly than when she was around anyone else. She was impulsive and reckless. Careless and stupid. Yes, she definitely would not be staying peacefully. Perhaps it was just the way Draco Malfoy worked within her: his supercilious swagger and haughty drawl tampered with her usual attitude that even when he did seem sincere (he was not) it only pricked her finger and sent her into a rage.

Or, perhaps, it was their highly explosive history.

Eh, it was just a mix of everything.

"You shouldn't be scared, you know," Harry finally said, trying to sound reassuring. "I bet you could take him on if you wanted. Totally mess him up. You did it once before."

Hermione snorted. "What? And get reprimanded by numerous adults of significance? I think they've got their point well across that while the fantasy was a great idea, it was far too… reckless to carry out into reality." She sighed heavily, looking down at her feet. She really did hate it when certain things forced her into contemplation of her faults. But she didn't really consider them faults. More like Damn Awesome Deeds to the Benefit of Humankind. It was just sad to her that everybody else failed to see that.

"They do have a point."

"Sadly," she frowned. "They failed to see that he deserved it."

Harry smiled a little. "Listen, Hermione, I hope it won't be too hard to behave yourself. Give him what he deserves, but don't be irrational. I don't want to come back and see him half paralyzed and limping around." Hermione laughed, because the image was funny, even in such a serious conversation as this. He nudged her gently. "You know what I mean. Don't do anything stupid."

"I'll try, for your sake. But I can't guarantee much improvement. I just hope you'll be all right on that island. That Remus won't overwork you, you know. You'll be pretty burnt out. You'll be learning about Dark spells…" Her voice quieted down. "You'll come back a different person. I'm just… concerned, is all." She remembered that learning Dark Magic always changed people. Made them more… hollow.

He let out a sigh, the kind of sigh that goes well beyond the lungs, and Hermione got the clear hint that his burden was certainly swelling bigger over the horizon now. She tried to look hopeful but knew that the darkness had the inexorable ability to distort even the most earnest impressions. "Everything's going to change, Hermione," he said, looking at her. "Sometimes you just can't hold on to things the way you want to."

ooooo

True to his word, Dumbledore saw them off early next morning. Hermione roused as soon as she heard muffled footsteps in the hall, getting a robe and covering herself up (Malfoy's servants had brought her some things to wear) before quietly sneaking out of her room. The portraits were still asleep as she passed, some snoring loudly and some stirring as she hurried past, and finally making it out to the top of the stairs just as she caught a glimpse of Harry and Lupin. They were talking in dulcet mumbles, as if trying not to wake anyone, although as Hermione descended the marble stairs she saw that everyone in the house was up already and that she was the last to wake. She felt a cinch of annoyance at this, thinking that perhaps they wouldn't have even woken her up to say goodbye to Harry, but shook it off as she finally reached the final stair. She felt the bare soles of her feet slap against the cold floor, shivering a bit as she felt chills up her spine, as she made her way over to them.

She could feel Draco's eyes on her as she walked towards them, for he had been the first to notice her presence, before his mother, who greeted her, hence drawing the attention of everybody else.

"Ah, Miss Granger, we apologize, we didn't mean to wake you," said Dumbledore with a smile.

"You didn't," she reassured him as she stopped in front of Harry, who tried his best to smile widely at her. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Very well, then," said Dumbledore. "We'll be in the parlor. Make it quick, please, as they must leave soon." Hermione nodded in reply as Narcissa Malfoy, Remus Lupin, Draco and Dumbledore headed towards the parlor. Not before, however, Hermione caught the look that Draco had given her. Not particularly a look of conceit or despicable manner, but a look that was hard to register. She felt her insides shudder as she quickly looked away, hearing their quiet conversation continue on as they walked.

"You didn't have to come down here, you know. I didn't want to wake you up and –"

"I wasn't sleeping," Hermione told him. "I couldn't sleep. Too much weighing in my head. I'm sure you know the feeling," she said quickly. Her voice seemed to falter a little in strength and tone, so she tried to bolster it a little. "But I wanted to come down here to say goodbye, and also to wish you luck. Not that you need it, for I have flawless confidence that you'll be working rigorously hard. And I have perpetual faith in you, Harry Potter," she stated. "I know that whatever happens… you'll get through it, because you have to, right? You told me that once."

Harry smiled. "Right. I did. But I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

Hermione nodded, not being able to help but get a little misty-eyed. She then startled him by suddenly throwing her arms around him and hugging him close. He stiffened at first, caught unawares, but finally gave in. She spoke as indifferently as she could, but her throat had begun to get scratchy and rough again. "You take care of yourself, Harry. And I don't blame you at all for leaving me here," she told him. "But I'll be downright angry if you don't come back soon. Understand?"

"Perfectly," said Harry, nodding solemnly. He tried to keep a passive expression on his face but found it somewhat hard. "Now let go, will you? You're hurting me a little."

Hermione, a little embarrassed, immediately loosened her embrace and let go. "Sorry," she muttered. "Don't have an exact measure of my strength."

He laughed good-naturedly. "It's all right." Then he sobered, looking at her with smiling but dark eyes. "Be good, all right, Hermione?"

She attempted to sound chipper, but all it ended up sounding was fake and silly. "The effort's there, Harry."

He didn't seem to notice. "Good. That's all I need to hear."

Dumbledore and the others appeared in the doorway. "Mister Potter? It's time for you and Remus to go."

Harry nodded as Remus Lupin was soon at his side, clutching a bag, and he said his goodbye to Hermione as well, assuring her that Harry was going to be in good hands. She felt Dumbledore at her side as she and the others watched Remus and Harry stand beside each other, perfectly still like statues. Harry was forcing a lost smile that dwindled away into a look of pure determination as Remus held up an odd-looking object in his hand and Hermione immediately knew that it was a portkey. Harry rested his hand atop of it. He looked up at her and slightly waved, but before she could wave back, there was a gentle sound, like the sound of a gust of wind against glass windows, and Harry and Remus were gone.

"Do not worry about Mister Potter, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said to her. "He knows what it is he has to do. He carries a large burden, but I daresay I don't think anybody else could have taken it as well as he has in the past. Now, let's shake off all of this melancholy and have some tea, shall we?" He patted her grandfatherly on the shoulder before he began to whistle to himself, Narcissa Malfoy joining his side as they headed towards another part of the manor. Draco stayed with Hermione awhile as she simply stared at the spot where they once stood, and as she turned she was startled to see him there, watching her. He nodded at her with no particular expression on his face.

"You're going to be fine," he said, and then he turned his back and began to leave. "And you ought to stop worrying. I have a feeling your Hero Boy's going to be just fine. I mean, it'd be awfully sad for him to die before he got the chance to fight the Dark Lord, don't you think?"

Hermione scowled at his back, all the while trying to subdue the beating of her heart. It took her another minute standing there and watching him as he disappeared (he had a talent for that), and she discovered the strange feeling in her stomach, making her feel dizzy and flustered at the same exact time. She was trying to imagine how the next few weeks were going to be like, and to be honest; she really couldn't do it at all.

ooooo

When Hermione woke up the next day she did not move from her bed. It wasn't because of depression or anything, since she wasn't atomically sad enough to actually lapse into what they called "episodes," it was just that it took her a minute or so to blink her eyes a few times and actually register that she was _here_, in the Malfoy Manor, and that Harry was gone and had left her here all alone to go train on an island with a silly name called Flockstaff. It appeared that she had woken up from a heavy sleep and was absolutely befuddled whether what had happened was just a dream or was actually real. Part of her had not believed it until she opened her eyes and recognized this room to be unfamiliar. She then remembered that her room, her real room back at her _former_ home, had been destroyed along with a number of her possessions.

Now _that_ was depressing to think about, but it was not only that thought that occupied her mind as she lay there in expensive, body-warming silk sheets. She stared out at the closed curtains of her room's veranda. This room seemed abnormally large in the morning. She closed her eyes tight, trying to shepherd all of her nebulous thoughts that all seemed to whisper on about Draco and his mother, and Harry and that island, and that Auror who'd followed her, and about that attack in their flat. Everything seemed so complicated now that she looked back on it. And now she was faced with the debacle of staying here in her ex-boyfriend's home (blech), with his mother. One menacing question boomed inside her mind: how on _earth_ was she going to survive?

She wondered if Narcissa knew all about her history of physically injuring her son. Probably. She then wondered if they were going to gang up on her and lock her up in the dungeon (she _knew_ they had one) and leave her there with only gruel to eat and stale, nearly inedible crackers. At that thought, there was a knock on the door that startled Hermione so much that she almost rolled out of her bed.

"Miss Granger, it's me, Narcissa Malfoy. Are you decent? I'd like to come in and talk to you," said a voice from the other side of the door.

Hermione began to subconsciously panic. _'Oh no,'_ she thought. _'They're going to fetch me for the dungeons now.' _Nevertheless, she mustered up the incredible nerve to announce that yes, she was decent, and made sure she was covered up with her blankets.

The door opened slowly and revealed Draco's mother, who, Hermione noticed, walked with such apparent grace and elegance that made her feel self-conscious about the way _she_ walked, whether it was graceful or not. Probably not. But the Misses Malfoy gave her a polite smile as Hermione observed her delicate limbs, her slender neck, and admirable figure that was hugged closely by the silk of her dark emerald robes. _'How apt,'_ she cynically thought. _'Slytherin colors.'_ But the gentle smile she was giving her was off-putting. It as almost as if she sympathized with her.

"Good morning, Miss Granger, I hope you've had a good night's sleep?"

"It was… well," Hermione croaked, failing to mention that it had been _heaven_ and that she wondered what mattress they used.

"Excellent. I hope I didn't wake you, by the way, it's just that I wanted to speak with you before I run some errands." She paused, readjusting her ladylike smile, perhaps to silently tell her that it was going to be okay. "Now, I know that you aren't exactly… comfortable with staying here with me and my son. I can't blame you. I know how hard it can be, especially… well, considering your history with my son," she chuckled lightly, and Hermione's brows furrowed.

"Wait a minute, which history?" she found herself blurting out.

Narcissa winked at her. "A mother knows everything about her son, Miss Granger. That is one magical power all mothers possess, Muggle or Magical."

Hermione sunk back further into her sheets, feeling nervous. Great, his mother knew about them. Great. Just great.

"I don't have a problem with it, by the way," she said sincerely. "I myself know a thing or two about adolescent flings." Hermione's brow twitched at the F-word. _Flings_. She inwardly growled. "And I can tell that you are a very respectable woman, Miss Granger. Intelligent and just in your ways. I even suspect my Draco well deserved that broken nose you were so generous to give."

Hermione's face flared a vibrant red.

"But I must say… though your grudge may be well-founded… I am only asking that you can disregard the past and trust us. I know my husband did many things to hurt you and your friends. But I must remind you that _we_ are _not_ my husband – despite appearances," she added, referring to her secret agent job as Lucius Malfoy. "And my son… I am not asking you to change your opinion of him, for that is yours to change or keep. I am only asking you to consider giving him the benefit of a doubt. He is, after all, human just like the rest of us."

There was silence, and Hermione felt her throat dry out, her heart wailing miserably in her chest. Being told off by Draco's _mum_? Oh, how she reached a whole new pathetic low. She couldn't believe this. Though Narcissa Malfoy was going about it perfectly nice, Hermione still felt like crawling under her covers and not coming out until Harry returned and they could escape somewhere – like, say, Flockstaff Island – where she would never have to encounter Misses Malfoy again. For self-evaluation reasons.

She could not keep her steady gaze and had to look away, for even though Draco's eyes slightly differed in color, her eyes had reminded her of her son's. They both had the same indomitable, daunting quality – to look straight into a person and immediately fluster them.

"I hope I haven't offended you," she then said. "And, again, I offer the most sincere apology if I have. Please come down to the dining hall for breakfast after you freshen up – you must be starving. Do not be shy with any of your requests, for one of the servants would be happy to carry them out for you. And if you ever need to tell me anything," she smiled, "do not be so timid. Draco and I are here to take care of you, and we intend on doing just that." She then began to turn away, heading towards her door.

"Wait," Hermione suddenly called out.

Narcissa stopped and turned around, looking at her.

"I just… I apologize," she said quietly, looking down at her hands. "For what I did to your son. I realize it wasn't… the nicest thing to do. But you have to understand, I had my reasons. But even so, I suppose I could have acted… decently." She swallowed hard. Those words had been difficult to say, and it left a tangy, salty, coarse taste on her tongue. But her conscience stung. She had to say something. Even though he deserved it… oh, it was a complicated thing. Maybe she couldn't apologize to his face, but she could apologize to his mother for having such a punchable son. "And I am grateful that you let me stay here, Misses Malfoy."

She smiled. Again, that smile. It was like a smile from Helen of Troy. "It is no problem of mine, Miss Granger. But thank you. Have a good day. Oh, and call me 'Narcissa.' " She glided to the door and left, closing it softly behind her.

Hermione sighed, lifting her head up from the pillow before letting it fall again. She began to think about Draco.

"Bollocks," she grumbled.

ooooo

On her third day at the manor Hermione got lost trying to look for the dining hall. She swore that their manor had endless corridors and there always seemed to be locked rooms everywhere (she'd tried the doors sometimes when she had to use the loo), which piqued her interest, at most, and even her suspicion that she'd tried to keep subdued after the Misses M had come in and _nicely_ reprimanded her about her behavior. Hermione tried to budge a few of the doors. There was a saying in her head that kept repeating like a nursery rhyme: "In a house there were no locked rooms without secrets."

She entered another corridor, which led to another, and there she found herself wandering a hall of portraits. These were different sorts of portraits – not of haughty, sneering Malfoys. She reckoned these were the ancestors of Narcissa, as many of them bore the same graceful attributes. Most of the paintings were of women, and they fawned over Hermione as she passed, asking her for her name and her business. Hermione didn't oblige many answers, but felt her curiosity take a deeper root within her of Draco's family's past. Why were his mother's relatives hidden back here in a corridor that took her almost twenty minutes to stumble upon?

Then as she walked further down the hallway, one painting called out to her. It was of a dark-haired woman with a cunning smile. "I know why you're here," she told her in a knowing voice, her smirk widening. "A curious little madam, aren't we?"

"No, I-I got lost," said Hermione.

"Oh, don't be afraid, and certainly don't lie about it," said the woman in the painting. "It's no secret about how this place gives people the shivers. And I ought to know a thing or two about secrets, you know. This house is full of them. But I bet you know that already, don't you? You felt it, right when you stepped in. The Malfoys have a dark history. But that shouldn't daunt you, darling, they're respectable people. But do you want to know their biggest secret?" she asked, her voice lowering and her dark eyes glinting.

Hermione felt the steady beat of her heart increasing its tempo, her mouth slightly parched as she stepped back. There was something very creepy about this woman, but she could feel her intrigue growing at a dangerous pace and couldn't take her eyes off of her. She shook her head quickly but listened as the woman told her anyway.

"Go to the end of the hall. There should be a painting of a castle. There should be three horses in that painting. There is one horse reaching for an apple on the ground – press your palm against the horse."

"What will it lead to?" Hermione asked, feeling her hands tingle with anticipation.

She only smirked. "The Malfoys' biggest secret. I told you."

Hermione was reluctant. She knew it wasn't any of her business to be wandering around here anyway, and to go _prying_ into their secrets? It was dishonorable. But the adventure was too great. She felt her feet taking her there, towards the end of the corridor, her mind misted over with the unexplainable crisp sensation of wonder and captivity. She stopped in her steps a few times, shaking her head, telling herself to just get out of here and ask one of the less creepy portraits the way to the dining hall, but she only ended up drawing towards it again, until she was face to face with said painting. It was a vast painting, bigger than her, that extended towards the ceiling and was past her arm span in width.

It was intricate and detailed. She could see every blade of grass, every small blossom in the courtyard tree, and every speck on the stone of the castle. She was fascinated by the painting, staring at it in awe, before she remembered that she was to look for the horse reaching for the apple. She searched for the horse, and it was extremely difficult, for the painting was so large and had so many details. She found the other two horses, but the third one was nowhere to be found. She looked harder, taking it in inch by inch, before she finally found it hiding behind one of the apple trees. Hermione raised her hand, drawing it closer to the painting, and a breeze was suddenly illustrated in the painting, causing some of the leaves in the trees to rustle and the flags to wave.

Then she stopped, hesitant to go on. Did she really want to know the Malfoy family's biggest secret? There had to be a reason why it was a secret, right? Yet half of her yelled in protest, arguing that it wouldn't hurt to find out, and that she wouldn't tell a soul about it anyway. It was just for the sake of her curiosity. Maybe, if she found out, this house wouldn't seem so large and frightening anymore, nor so ominous.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione placed her palm over the horse, which had strode out of the forest during the breeze, and pressed it against the painting. Instantly she felt her body freeze, a strange feeling rocketing up her arm, like electricity, to the tips of her hair. Then the painting began to change, quickly, as the sky flushed the vibrant red of a fiery sunset and the clouds disappeared and then appeared to transition into night as it darkened and began to glitter with stars. There was a large gust of wind pervading the once peaceful scenery, and she watched with wide eyes as the horses began to violently ram into each other. There was a window in the castle that was suddenly lit, and she saw the silhouette of a figure inside.

Then Hermione heard a series of noises. A loud, creaky groaning, and thumps of wood as she suddenly spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She watched as a wooden, medieval-looking door was revealed at the dead end of the corridor. She looked back at the painting, and was surprised to see that it had gone back to the way it had exactly been before – with blue skies, no wind, and cherry blossoms. Except now the third horse was nowhere to be found.

She stepped back and headed towards the door, feeling fear take root in her, and again she had second thoughts about what she was doing. But something inside her, something that wanted to understand Draco and his family a little better, something that would convince her that they _were_ human just like they said, pushed her on until she stood face to face with the heavy door. There was black steel nailed onto the wood, and a niche for a lock, but there was no lock. She gripped the handle and was surprised as it creaked noisily and began to open.

She walked in slowly, not having a single iota of a clue what to expect, feeling her blood pound along with the fierce hammering of her heart. Her brain was paralyzed with a mixture of raw excitement and fear as she looked upon a room with walls and the floor made of pure stone. There was a table by the side that held concoctions of potions and a few bottles, some still steaming, but what Hermione's gaze found directly across from her was what caused the color from her face to drain away.

It was a prison cell. Black iron bars, crisscrossed perpendicularly, from floor to ceiling. And it wasn't the fact that they had a prison cell inside their home that shocked her – it was that they had a man in it, a very old man with frizzy, fine white hair, slumped down on the floor. Hermione felt her heart stop as she stared at him, dressed in tatty robes and looking almost malnourished, and gasped when he suddenly began to move. She wanted so badly to get out of here now, to run out and cover her ears from all of the things the paintings would say, and the most horrible thing was that even now she could hear the dark-haired woman wickedly laughing at her.

But as the small gasp was emitted from her throat, the man jerked his head towards the sound. His icy eyes locked onto hers and she stumbled back, so overwhelmed with this situation that her knees swayed and her mind felt tangled and useless from the barrage of blood pounding to her head.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing here? Have you come to get me out? Come get me out, now."

Hermione could not say anything. She was still so startled.

"Well, what are you, mute? You can at least hear me, can't you? Come get me out! I've got things to do!"

"W-who are you?" Hermione finally managed to ask.

"I'm an innocent man locked behind bars, what do you think?"

"I'm-I'm sorry, I don't—"

Then the man's expression changed. His face crumpled down into a wretched expression and he began to cry. "Oh! The injustice of this world! After I've been tortured and locked in here for a decade! I've done nothing but try to save the fate of the world – and here I am, locked up, with a mute that talks but can't even save me! Curse the blood of the Malfoys! They lock up innocent men! Especially that young one, Draco – oh, I'd hate to see the man that he becomes! Just like his father! Carrying out wicked deeds and helping to reduce the world to rubble! He's going to ruin us all, you know! _Ruin_ us!"

"Hold on a minute," said Hermione, still wary but nearing him now. "What did you say?"

"I said he's evil!" he sobbed. "Just as evil as his father! Evil blood! _Evil_! Helping the Dark Lord! You're next, you know! You're next!"

She was horrorstruck, staring at the man with wide eyes. Her breath had completely flown away now, and she could no longer breathe. "_What_?" Her legs felt weak. She felt as if she was going to faint any minute now.

"He isn't helping you! Always a plan! He's good at making those, you know! Master planner just like his rat bastard father!"

Hermione didn't feel well. She felt her whole world spinning around her, and her stomach was queasy, her mind feeling blocked from the air. "You're lying," she wheezed. "You're in a prison cell. You're lying. You'll say anything to get me to help you get out. Who are you?"

"I'm his grandfather!" he barked. "Who else?"

Just then, Hermione heard footsteps. She whirled around as she saw Draco rush into the room, and she stumbled back towards the cell. His face looked livid.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?" he demanded. "You aren't supposed to be here! Get out!"

"Who is this man?" cried Hermione. "And why is he – why is he locked in a prison cell?"

He drew closer to her, but Hermione backed up against the bars, trying to get away from him. A dark fist enclosed around her heart. "You don't understand, Hermione, you don't know," he said through clenched teeth. "Get away from there. _Now_. Don't listen to anything he says – he isn't well."

"And to keep him in a prison cell?" she said incredulously, swallowing hard to keep her throat hydrated. It wasn't working. "Seems to me he isn't the only one unwell."

"He's a cheat!" yelled the old man behind her. "He's lying to you! He isn't helping you at all! He's trying to help the Dark Lord kill Harry Potter!"

Hermione stared at him, suddenly terrified, feeling the painful spasms inside her chest. She was overcome with a very cold feeling. "I knew it," she breathed. "I knew it couldn't be true."

"Oh, don't be so gullible, Granger," he snapped at her. "He's a mad old man. What else could explain the cell? And I'm _not_ helping the Dark – I'm on your side, remember?" he insisted in frustration, and his silver eyes gleamed meaningfully, but Hermione tasted salt on her lips. "Why would I help the Dark Lord?" he asked her firmly. "Why?"

"I don't know. You tell me," she bit out.

Draco walked towards her, trying to grab her hand. "Get away from there, you'll –" while Hermione shouted at him to get away from her and slipped her arm away, breathing raggedly with stinging eyes. "You don't understand," he shouted. "This man, he isn't –"

Suddenly, Hermione cried out as she felt something pull her hair back from behind with extreme force, slamming her head against the iron bars. Everything, then, with the hot piercing pain pummeling against her skull, seemed to go in a fast haze. She whimpered as she felt a cold, strong hand gripping her throat so tightly that she felt her gullet getting crushed and felt a sharp jolt of pain against the skin of her open throat. There was something solid and sharp digging into her flesh.

She recognized the old man's yells directly behind her. Her ears began to ring as she tightly closed her eyes, trying to breathe. She didn't know if he was aware of it, but he was strangling her.

"Let me go!" he shouted. "Let me go! Let me go or I'll slit her throat!"

Draco did not waste any time with words. Instead, with a vicious glower on his face of rage, he drew his wand and stunned the man so quickly that Hermione might have even missed it in all of her dazed thinking. She heard the dull sound as the man's heavy body collapsed to the floor in an unconscious heap and felt his immediate release from her throat, Hermione falling to her knees on the stone, wheezing for breath, her throat burning almost unbearably.

She felt warm hands against her skin, trying to lift her up, but she suddenly felt too tired. She heard a familiar voice that was soon muffled, fading away into incoherent but dulcet mumbles. Draco was the last thing she saw, his molten gray eyes peering worriedly into hers, before – for the second time that week – she fainted dead away.

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Tsk, tsk, tsk. So, is that man really Draco's grandpop? Who _is_ that weird old man? More thrills coming up soon, so don't forget to **review**! 


	9. Fountains and Gardens

If It Was You

**A/N: **A big surprise for all of you in here… hee hee hee. Slightly bizarre and not really planned, but hey, it all just came to me in a vision of blue bell flowers. Thanks to **Mates of State**, just because their music is what I want to be when I grow up.

And also to the fabulous **Hermione Crookshanks Experience**!

**Fountains and Gardens**

If there was one thing that Draco absolutely came to hate anytime, anywhere, it was Hermione Granger's damned curiosity. It was like a perpetual flaring thing, like a little bugger that just wouldn't go away, like one of those jumping monkeys with the cymbals that would follow people wherever they went until they gave the sodding animal some money. It was like that, except _worse_, because there was no cure for her endless nosiness unless you actually killed her (and he couldn't pay her off like those monkeys, either), which wasn't an actual choice, which was kind of really a shame. See, it was her own fault that she now had a bruise the size of bloody Texas on the back of her scalp and had nearly gotten her own throat slit by Draco's barmy grandfather. He made a mental note to tell her that there was a _reason_ why some people were kept in isolated prison cells in hidden rooms and that he hadn't put him there just because it was _pretty_.

He grumbled about all this as he watched over her in his room. He had dragged an armchair to his bedside so he could monitor her; and for the second time in just a couple of days, he wasn't actually sure whether she was fine or she had lapsed into some sort of a coma, although the Medi-Witch that he'd summoned had said that she was just fine and had just fainted from… well, whatever it is that people faint from. Still, the manly part of him really jumped on his back for watching her sleep, so often his eyes traveled to the curtains that revealed the view from his veranda before they flickered back to her on his bed before they flickered back out to his view again.

He was relieved to know that she hadn't gotten any serious injuries, just a few scratches and bruises, but the wound on her head had been a pretty gruesome sight for him (and a pretty deserved injury for her). His nurse, who had been his nurse for as long as he could remember, had given him an offhanded look about it too, when she had been inspecting Granger, to which he responded with by telling her that it wasn't his fault Granger was such a stupid, foolhardy, irrational bint.

He sighed, his face fitting into a scowl. She hadn't even been here a week and already she had stirred up trouble. See, this was what Draco had been talking about right from the beginning. Hermione Granger was _nothing_ but trouble. Why couldn't anybody else see that? And why was he _always_ the one to clean up her mess? And the one to explain everything to her? What was he – their scapegoat?

Draco growled.

Foul play.

It was late afternoon when she finally began to stir. Draco had already taken a nap in his chair and had woken up twenty minutes before she had woken, and he watched with slight amusement as Granger began to groan hoarsely, clutching her head, her face scrunched up in all of her agony. She hadn't opened her eyes yet to see that she wasn't alone, and Draco sat up in his chair, waiting for that opportunity to dawn and already anticipating the relish he would get from seeing the look on her face once she did. He was mildly sadistic this way.

When she did open her eyes, she froze. It took her a long moment to register her surroundings, and then she began to look around, letting out an odd sound as she saw Draco there, watching her. He could see that she was trying to scowl at him but he reckoned that she was still probably half gone because it didn't appear to be working.

"Where am I?" she managed to croak, although not very well.

"You're in my room," he answered in the same bored drawl.

"Why?" she said hoarsely.

"Because I can't very well be walking back and forth to your room from mine, can I? My room's on the other side of the manor. And, besides," he said, looking straight at her, letting her know that he was irritated with her, "I had to make sure that that blow to your head hadn't somehow altered your brain and you didn't go off jumping off window ledges thinking you were a bird or something."

"I would have only just done you a favor," she then sneered, "seeing as how you want to kill me anyway."

Draco's nasty temper flared up again.

"Don't be stupid, Granger," he barked. "I don't want to kill you – yes, there are certainly times when the desire becomes all too monstrous to bear, like right now, for instance, but you're still alive, aren't you? It seems it's not _me_ who has to control my dangerous tendencies. Do you realize you could have been _killed_? By a madman, no less! What did you think; you were going to find leprechauns and gold? A secret village? Bloody _Narnia_? How did you even get in there in the first place?"

He began to yell at her, standing up. "Your third day here and you're acting as if you can stroll around anywhere you like, opening up secret doors and almost getting cut up by a prisoner! Why can't you be a _normal_ person and just go down to the dining hall when you're hungry instead of –"

Because, seriously! What the _hell_ was _wrong_ with her?

"Don't yell at me, all right?" she said, raising her voice as well, but looking like it hurt her. "I have a huge migraine!"

"Well, whose doing is that?" he quipped back at her, still not lowering his voice. That's _right_ he was going to yell at her! "And I'm _not_ going to spare you the pain! Because whether you like it or not, _Hermione_, you _deserved_ it! Tell me, what did you expect to find? Something else that you could hold against me? Something else that could further prove our despicable _worth_ to you?"

"Would you stop yelling?" she yelled.

"No!"

"My head hurts and I –"

"Just answer the bloody question!"

"No! I wasn't _expecting_ to find anything, all right?" she finally said, spitting it through her teeth as if it was something vile. "I _know_ it was horrible – it was a terrible thing I did. I had no _sane_ reason to do it. I apologize. I… I don't know what came over me. It was just that there was this painting, and –"

"She's going to be firewood," Draco muttered angrily, obviously knowing which painting it was. "But who are you to be listening to a _canvas_ with _paint_? Last time I checked, Granger, you still had a bit of brains in you."

"Well, she wasn't wrong, was she?" she snapped. "And would you lay off? I _said_ I was sorry. My head's _killing_ me. Are you happy? And if this is because of what happened with your nose –"

"Don't change the subject," said Draco. "And how could you be so dense as to _believe_ that man! Don't I deserve at least a little trust from you?"

"You keep your grandfather in a prison cell!" she exclaimed. "I think it takes more than a little trust to cover that up."

"For _once_ in your life, can't you _mind_ your own business?" he shouted loudly, making her ears hurt. "There's a reason that room was hidden – and it's just so that _girls_ like _you_ wouldn't enter it and almost get _killed_! My family's business is my family's business and I _certainly_ don't need people like _you_ to start digging your noses into it, do you understand? I didn't need it then, and I don't need it now." He silently sighed, his face flushed from anger. "You can't do what you want around here, Granger. You just can't. And you can't… you don't understand my family." His face hardened. And, you know, Hermione couldn't disagree.

She was silent, watching him. She could see the faint tinge of a massive anchor in his eyes, and she swallowed hard, her throat still burning a little. She felt very small now, and ashamed.

"I'm… I'm sorry," she said. She opened her mouth to say more, but then discovered that she had nothing else to say. Nothing else that could deem it all justice, anyway. Boy, did she feel like a fool. Because he was right. She had no business interfering with other people's lives. She wasn't… well, _Ginny_. But at least Ginny could get away with it. She certainly wouldn't have gotten herself in this sort of horrible mess.

And then they simply stayed there, looking at each other. She looked away, though, before she could see the way his eyes flickered over her face, the expression of something lost appearing on the plain lines of his face before he rubbed them away. His vast room suddenly appeared to be shrinking for her, Hermione feeling flutters in her stomach that she rebuked as she sensed his intense gaze still on her. Her head was still pounding, and she felt a little feverish, but it all seemed to spiral away yet flounce back with even greater force as she continued to sit in this room with him. She could see her heart's furious tattoo inside her shirt.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"I'll send for one of the house-elves to bring you up some food. And take a bath. You look terrible."

And then he left, closing the door behind him, and Hermione sighed with relief. She then asked herself a very futile question: _'Why is it that the one door I'm not supposed to go into isn't locked and all the others are?'_

ooooo

For the next two days Hermione and Draco managed to work their way around each other and fortunately neither of them never even caught a glimpse of each other around the manor – which wasn't surprising, seeing as how the place was so massive. Maybe he had secret passages hidden in the walls or something, secret doors (a couple of those, at least) which would have been convenient. But every time Hermione did think of him she felt very uncomfortable and she felt herself warm a little, although she insisted it was just her fever acting up again. Oh, wait a second – she did see him once, one morning, for he'd stopped by her room only to see how she was doing and to tell her in an imperious voice that she wasn't to be taking anymore adventures. Of course, by then she had been already too keen to just stay inside her room.

She hadn't seen much of Narcissa Malfoy, either, but Dumbledore had stopped by to tell her that Narcissa was seldom around much – she had "errands to run," as she had said. Lucius business, Hermione reckoned, and she didn't have a problem with that at all. Her curiosity for the Malfoys had been contained now, true, but it was still there, poking her awake sometimes in the middle of the night. One night she could have even sworn she'd heard voices, but as she'd sat up in bed she saw that it was only the sound of wind against her window.

She'd hoped Harry would owl her or find some way to keep contact with her, but alas, her hopes were quashed under the heel of one Albus Dumbledore when he informed her that he would have no way to reach her, not even through owl. It was against the rules – that, and Flockstaff Island was too far away that any owl would get lost anyway. So that caused Hermione mild despair and, not wanting to somehow run into Draco and be forced to encounter him with outrageous awkwardness, she spent most of her time penning ridiculous things (like spells or letters to people she would never send) and standing out on her veranda to admire the view. She often looked down below, watching the unchanging scenery, but sometimes she heard a soft tinkle in the air, like a fairy's laugh.

On her sixth day Hermione was out on her veranda again and she watched with curiosity as she suddenly spotted a figure fully clothed in black began to leave the Malfoy grounds. She recognized the swagger and the head of flaxen hair and narrowed her eyes a little, leaning nearer to the balcony, watching him more closely.

"What could Draco Malfoy be doing out on a day like this?" she mumbled to herself in a neutral voice. But it was just then that he suddenly stopped, and, as if sensing her closely observing eyes, began to look around. Hermione gasped, noticing that he was soon to look her way, and ducked down just as she was sure his silver eyes had swept past her terrace.

She waited there a while, feeling ridiculous, asking herself why on earth she was _hiding_ from him like some idiot. But she hadn't the nerve to actually stand up until after he was gone, dusting herself off, yet fiercely reprimanding herself in a way that if anyone had been within clear hearing distance they would have pronounced her clinically insane. Which wasn't a totally mad idea, actually.

See, the fact of the matter was, she was totally and completely unnerved by him – worse than before, which was a very bad thing. Well, not unnerved as in frightened of him or anything (though she did have her moments), it was just that, well, he _unnerved_ her. As if he took out all of her smart, logical nerves, and made all of her stupid nerves scream bloody anarchy inside her. It was all about defiance. What was it about Draco Malfoy that screamed defiance even when it concerned things that didn't _want_ to be concerned by him? Because, hey, Hermione still _didn't_ _like_ him, all right? He was a jerk. And she'd been a jerk back. All right. But still. What he'd done to her was way worse than anything she'd done to him. And so now, yes, maybe she had cooled down a little and she was willing to cooperate… but couldn't anyone see it? It still sort of hurt.

Hermione was in her room reading one of the stray books she had found around the manor when she heard a knock on her door that was soon followed by a small house-elf who called himself Peaches (really, it still irritated her that the Malfoys still had house-elves), telling her that the lady of the house was requesting her company for dinner. Which was new, considering the fact that Narcissa had been quite busy with… well, you know.

After dressing into clothes that she'd chosen from a selection Narcissa had prepared for her, she ventured out of her room. Hermione did a meticulous job of getting to the dining hall without getting lost and when she finally did hear the clink of silverware in the distance and a low mumbling of voices, she sighed with relief, making sure to head in that direction. When she arrived there she immediately apologized for her tardiness and courteous Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in pale pink robes, only smiled at her.

"No worries, Miss Granger. Please do sit down. You must be starving."

Hermione took the seat across from Draco, who was sitting on the other side of his mother. She glanced up at him as she was sitting down, though afraid to catch his eye. Luckily, she didn't. He was too busy studying whatever it was in his goblet. He didn't even acknowledge her presence and only acted as if she wasn't there. Hermione gave him a dry look. _'Must still be sore with me for finding that room,'_ she thought to herself as she took hold of her impeccably shiny utensils. This wasn't a surprise to her, and it even sort of relieved her a little, for it meant that they weren't going to have to be chummy-chummy. She didn't _want_ to be chummy-chummy.

"Well, how do you like our home?" Narcissa asked her with a gentle smile. "I do apologize for my absence these days, I've had to take care of a few things. Arrangements, you know. But I do hope you haven't gotten too lost. Perhaps my Draco was polite enough to offer some navigation?"

A huge buzzer sound sounded off in Hermione's head, repeating that no, that was a negative.

Hermione froze in her seat, glimpsing up at Draco, who had now only taken the time to look at her. "Um," said Hermione, shifting in her seat. "I got lost once or twice. But I made it out all right." She cleared her throat as she began to eat.

"Funny thing, actually," she said, with a knowing glint in her eye. "My nurse just informed me this morning that Miss Granger had received some sort of head injury." She cast expecting looks at Draco and Hermione. "Anything I should know, children?"

"Well," Hermione said quickly, feeling nervous. She hated it when grown-ups did this. She felt like she was ten again. "Not a head injury _per se_. More like a… bruise."

A bruise most like a head injury.

"Yes," Draco cut in. "She fell down the stairs."

Hermione was giving him a look. Yes, those _damn_ stairs.

Narcissa seemed to accept this explanation. "Oh, I do hate our stairs," she said, sipping from her glass. "Nasty things. Ancient, too, which is probably why we have so many problems with it. But, anyway, tell me, Miss Granger," she said, setting down her goblet, "how were your years at Hogwarts? Draco refuses to tell me much about them. So I'm curious to hear your perspective." And she really did look it, too, as her pale blue eyes excitedly sparkled.

Hermione blinked. "Uh," she said, avoiding their eyes, "there isn't much to tell, really. I was Head Girl, along with… your son. Worked hard. Studied a lot." For some reason she did not feel up to elaborating on her adventures and misadventures at Hogwarts. "More than a lot."

"She was obsessive-compulsive," muttered Draco.

"Yes, you do look like the studious type," she agreed. "But any particular thing you enjoyed at Hogwarts? Tell me, how was it like being Harry Potter's best friend? I know many girls must have envied you."

Suddenly, there was a loud clink that surprised both of the women. Draco mumbled an apology under his breath. "The knife," he explained. "Got away from me for a second there." _Almost went right to her throat_, he thought mentally.

"It was… great," said Hermione, not really knowing how to respond to this question. What was she insinuating, exactly? That her and Harry had been involved? "Certainly… eventful." She didn't know what she was supposed to comment on; Harry's female admirers that _had_, in fact, sent her some pretty nasty letters well beyond their envy, or the simple fact that yes, they had envied her, but only because of Harry Potter's closeness to her.

Narcissa then laughed, and her laughs were like little white butterflies. Hermione kind of hated those laughs. When _she_ laughed it was like… well, certainly no little white butterflies.

"I see. Say, Miss Granger, have you had the chance to wander out into the gardens just yet? It's utterly _beautiful_ out there this time of year."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I haven't."

"Oh, but you must go!" she exclaimed. "It would be a crime for you not to go. I know," she said, having an idea, looking at her son. "Draco, you are to be escorting Miss Granger to the gardens tomorrow morning. Miss Granger, we cannot keep you cooped up in here. There is no fresh air," she smiled. "You'll have a wonderful time, you two. I just know it."

Hermione smiled nervously while Draco's eyes flickered to her across the table, wondering just what on earth his mother was doing now. Didn't his mum, his officer, his command – _know_ that leaving him alone with _her _could lead to massive bodily _harm_? Nevertheless, she seemed set on these plans as she coolly disregarded the looks the other two were giving her of utter disturbance as she sashayed into the topic of Potter and Lupin on that island, and Granger's expression changed into one of serious thought. The remainder of their evening then followed on that tangent – they discussed and mused upon what was to happen with the battle, and his mother inquired some more about Granger's encounters. Draco simply listened on, and he could hear the cycles whirring inside his mother's head as she tried to make sense of everything Granger told them and mentally making plans to report back to Dumbledore.

While Draco, himself, was also trying to make sense of everything as well. Call it a hero mentality or just a _job_, there was just something fishy about the fact that their flat had been burned down. Obviously someone knew that it would draw both Granger and Potter out and then back into hiding. Unless – they _wanted_ to keep them in hiding. But it didn't make sense. _Why_ did they want to keep them in hiding?

Their dinner ended with desert, and the menacing subject of the battle had strung out the whole evening. Draco saw that Hermione's jaw seemed to be a lot more squared than usual and noticed when her quietness became constant. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head as well. Sooner or later, she was going to find out that something strange was going on – and that they were keeping things from her. And Draco _really_ didn't want to be there when that happened. Somehow, he knew that she was just going to find some way to blame it all on him.

"Do not forget," Narcissa reminded them, on a cheery note. "Tomorrow morning, the gardens. My Draco will lead you through the maze. You'll have a wonderful time."

ooooo

Contrary to Narcissa's endless comments about having a "wonderful day tomorrow," their morning did not get off to a very good start. First off, both forced parties had an itching feeling inside their bellies that something strange was going to happen. And Hermione, who, after last night hadn't had much sleep for the fact that she had been thinking all night about what they'd discussed. She was also nervous and a bit irked by the company she was to have all throughout her nature exploration. While heading back to their rooms last night they had talked for a bit – if you could call it that – and she had been trying her best to be polite and courteous. He accused her of being a cold-arsed snob. Hah! He was one to be talking!

Anyway, after dressing into another of Narcissa's selections, this time a deep royal blue blouse with simplistic lace trimming, she'd gone down to have some breakfast. Draco was there, eating as well, and that was when he informed her that he had retrieved her wand from Madam Rosmerta. Hermione asked if she could have it back. He said no; he'd locked it in an indestructible safe and would not return it to her until she was out of his manor and out of opportunities to hex him. He tried to be sincere as he said this, for it was the truth, but it did not work to his advantage at all.

Afterwards, they both headed out to the gardens. The gardens were on the other side of the manor, and once Hermione had stepped out she felt immediately relieved, for some reason. It certainly was a sight to behold. Elegant and beautiful, with cherry blossom trees and colorful flowers and a majestic fountain in the distance. He then began to lead her towards the maze, and when she asked him what exactly he thought he was doing, he said that he was only doing what his mother had told him to do.

"I expect you know the way out?" Hermione said as she followed in after him. She got shivers, but only because she remembered the maze back at the Triwizard Tournament in their fourth year. But she was pleased it bore no resemblance; the maze was made with emerald bushes that made never-ending walls, so high that it towered over her. There was a sprinkle of blue bell flowers scattered among the leaves and a few vines. Everything seemed so charming and old.

"No idea," said Draco, still in front of her. He turned a corner.

Hermione, with furrowed brows, quickly followed after him. "What do you mean you don't know? You _drag_ me in here, and then you tell me that you won't be able to find our way back out?"

Draco snorted. "It was a joke, Granger, have a sense of humor. I've been running through this maze since I could walk. Do you honestly think I could have forgotten? Really, loosen up a bit, will you? I should've brought some vodka or something," he muttered, glancing at her. He then smirked. "I know how much you like your drink, after all."

Hermione scowled at him. "Your mother said I had to be nice to you," she said bitterly. "No physical misconduct."

"Amazing. You being _forced_ to be decent and not doing it just by your free _will_? Impossible. And here I was expecting some roundabout fisticuffs. Shame."

"Well, if you'd stop being such an arse," Hermione snapped. "With your cynical and bastard sayings, and your constant conceit, then I wouldn't _have_ to be forced to be nice to you."

"I only act in retaliation, Granger," he told her dryly. "You jump down my throat about asinine silly things, I bark back with reciprocated coldness. I'm not the one wandering 'round people's houses as if I own the place," mumbled Draco under his breath. "Honestly! You get lost and end up opening a hidden door! What are the chances?"

"I _said_ I was sorry," Hermione said, annoyed. "Why can't you let that go?"

"Yes, because if you had _died_ it couldn't possibly have been harder."

"I was confused," she finally explained, frustrated. "That man… he was telling me he was innocent, and that he was your grandfather, and – he was locked in a prison cell in a secret room! What would _you_ have done if you were in my shoes?"

They were whizzing past the green walls, turning corners. She was then going to ask why they had locked up his grandfather in a prison cell – a question that had been in her mind ever since that day – but his reply was too quick for her.

"Not going around people's manors and looking for secret rooms with such disrespect, for one," he spat. "And what are you on _me_ for not being able to let go about things, anyhow? _You're_ the one who has _major_ mental and emotional issues, not to mention your volatile temper. I _swear_ sometimes I think that I ought to wear full-body armor around you."

"Well, go ahead, Draco Malfoy," she said, annoyed. "It's no shock to me because I already know that you're weak."

"I'm not weak, you're just a homicidal madwoman. You're going to kill yourself one day with your deranged antics and I'm not going to be sorry at all."

"Right, and that's exactly why you were looking after me in your room."

Suddenly, their banter had turned into a more hazardous road. The air quickly became dense between them, her sharp voice piercing through the fragrant atmosphere. The garden blurred away.

Draco froze.

"You're transparent, you know," she coldly informed him.

"Not nearly as transparent as you," he said, whirling around to face her.

"And just how am I transparent?" she asked him. "What makes you think you know me? A few months of being together back at school and you think you can see right through me?" She scoffed. "Then again, all those months you only _lied_ to me. So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I _can't_ see through you. But, then again, maybe I don't want to. I'd have to shield myself from all of the gruesome, rotting, dead _ferrets_ I'd find." She then proudly smiled at this, as if it was funny.

"Granger, really," he said, not finding it very funny at all (he was _done_ with the ferret jokes – why couldn't anybody see that?), "when are you going to stop being that unwitting, senseless girl you were at Hogwarts?" he spat, infuriated with her remark. "Because it seems to me that you are in dire need of a reality check. And – maybe you haven't noticed because of your daily lunacy, but the past is over. So I suggest you get the hell over it and join us in the present for pity's sake."

And then he viciously turned back around and walked away from her, Hermione glaring at his back as he turned and all she saw was the dirt path and the emerald bushes with the blue bell flowers. Then she began to run after him. She turned the corner, but could no longer see him, and so she turned another, and another. She began to vindictively call out his name, searching for him, now getting very annoyed with this game he was playing.

Then, finally, turning, she crashed into something warm and solid, so startled from the impact that she fell backwards, hitting the ground with her bum. Her brown eyes were dark slits on her face as she looked up at him.

She was suddenly swept away in the whirlwind roused inside her mind, her temper sending signs of clear threat. And when the tiny metal room up in her cranium began to glow red and the sirens started to blare of immediate evacuation, she lost all of her wit. Her logic. Reason. Anger knew no coherent sentences. Grudges knew no reason. If grudges knew reason there wouldn't _be_ grudges.

And who cared if nobody – Ginny, Harry, Lupin – could _understand_ why she couldn't possibly let go of his faults, why she kept it so near to her chest – who even _gave_ a shit? It _hadn't happened _to them. They weren't the ones who had so willingly fallen into a malicious trap. They weren't the one who actually _trusted_ Draco Malfoy – they weren't the ones who had gone around telling Harry Potter how he had _changed_, how he wasn't the same anymore. They didn't know how wrong she had been and how _humiliating_ it was to even think of those memories. And call her exaggerated, call her stupid, call her every single word in the current dictionary. It didn't matter to her. Because this wasn't their problem at all, was it?

"You _really_ think that the whole world revolves around you, don't you?" Hermione shuddered with rage, her fingers digging into the earth beneath her, cinching right inside her fingernails. "How could you _possibly_ think that things between us would be all _right_ after –"

"I didn't think anything," he glared down at her. "I _expected_ us to be mature adults."

"_Mature_!" Hermione exclaimed. "Oh, right! Well, that's no problem, is it? I mean, it isn't as if you lied to me or anything, or betrayed me –"

"Oh, come off it!" Draco yelled at her.

"You _hurt_ me!" Hermione said, her eyes getting a little glossy. She felt the deep depression in her chest begin to throb as her words finally rebounded back to her, and she felt honestly quite stunned. She blinked, her eyes pink around the edges, looking at him with a thread of fear in her chest now – although it was for a reason that kept itself completely hidden to her.

Call her daft, but she'd never expected this to happen. For a confrontation of screaming truths and faults to happen in the Malfoy garden. And she most certainly never planned to ever reveal to Draco Malfoy her biggest secret, the _single_ thing that she wanted to hide from him until she died and rotted away. Not even for a second. She was so busy thinking about all of this that she flinched when he began to yell at her.

"Why don't you grow up, Granger?" he nastily roared. "Why don't you do us all a favor and _grow up_? _Yes_, I _hurt_ you! But can't you even stop and think – just for a second – that I got hurt, too? That maybe I _didn't_ want to do what I did to you?"

Hermione felt a pang in her heart; saw the sudden smearing of her surroundings. Oh great. She was crying.

She swallowed hard, her nostrils flaring. "No."

Draco was silent. He simply stared at her; his rigid jaw locked tight, his piercing eyes boring right into her – into a place deep inside her where she'd sworn she'd never let him near ever again. She got so angry when people told her that it wasn't one of those things she could control, because Hermione had a thing with control. She always wanted to run everything; _had_ to or else her life would rapidly dwindle away or unravel or something – she thought like that. She'd grown up in that mindset; who the hell knows where she got it from? So it was a really hard thing for her to swallow down when things fled away from what she could handle and she was right there, standing face-to-face with it, slowly watching what was inevitable. It was just _hard_ for her.

"Get up," he ordered. "And shut up."

Hermione quickly did, blindly brushing herself off, staggering a little, but faced him with a spiteful face. "You can't just tell people to shut up when they defy you."

He neared her slowly, his face livid. "I tell you to shut up because you engage in what they call 'psychobabble,' Granger, and because you say the stupidest things I have ever heard and it hurts my ears to listen to them," he said, scowling.

"So then why are you still here?" she asked, but then noticed that their faces were getting closer, and closer. She was suddenly aware that her heart was beating very fast now, abnormally fast, and blood was pounding through every vessel inside of her. She felt an oncoming fever begin to trickle down her neck. Her palms were sweating.

"Malfoy," she then began to say, her voice hoarse. "Don't."

"Don't _what_?" he hissed.

"Don't do it. I promise to Merlin, if you do it, I'm going to punch you."

And so he stopped, and they stared at each other, while Hermione was still trying to keep in her ragged breaths. Draco was watching her, her face all flushed with passion and anger, her brown eyes now overcome with confusion and fluster. Her curls had eluded the casual updo it had been fixed in, and now stray delicate wisps hovered along her cheeks and forehead. She looked a little pained as they stood there dangerously close to each other, and he couldn't distinguish her breaths from the roaring inside his ears. A cool breeze passed, and Draco watched as her runaway curls slightly moved along to the wind.

And then, to his utmost shock, he felt her warm body collide against his, her moist lips brushing against his mouth. He staggered back a little, but wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling the weight of her mouth against his, knowing full well that this was trouble but not even caring the slightest bit.

Seriously, though. Full body armor around this girl.

He would have been too distracted by the very unexpected turn of events here, but was too preoccupied kissing her to dwell on his shock. Because he wasn't completely shocked, you see. Somehow, a part of him had known this was going to happen. That whatever hold Potter had on her – the burdened Hero, oh, boo hoo – would slip away just like everything else. For the Malfoy gardens was a very peculiar place. Maybe it was the very special enchantment in the scent of the blue bells that pervaded the air, or maybe it was just the crackling sexual tension that had become so strong that even two stubborn lunatics such as themselves weren't as safe from it as they had thought. Point was: whatever they had started one entire year ago had never been finished.

Not even with the Dark Mark.

He felt a strong breeze pass around them, feeling an electric thrumming running through the marrow inside his bones that he couldn't recall feeling ever since he'd left Hogwarts. He always denied it, and even after a few months, easily forgot about it. But now it was like a slap in the face – without the courtesy of even presenting a way of possible escape. Because this was hell for Draco Malfoy, too – sure, he fancied snogging just as much as any guy. But this wasn't _just snogging_. With Hermione Granger there was never _just snogging_. This was hardcore I'm-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-you-afterwards snogging. Plus a few attachments.

And to be truthful, he'd forgotten what it was like to kiss her. Probably because he'd wanted to so badly, that he just did. But he hated kissing her, especially now, especially with the way he made her chest feel so damn fuzzy. Because it _wasn't_ allowed. Messing around with Harry Potter's true love? God, he was so involved now it wasn't even _slightly_ funny.

He liked to think that they had been kissing for quite a while, and everything had been particularly heated due to their febrific kisses and the close proximity of their bodies, but in reality they had only been kissing for a few seconds before an invisible force had pulled her away from him, his hands now holding nothing but air.

His eyes suddenly opened, feeling as if something had stolen his breath away, as he doubled over, falling to the ground as he tried to catch his breath. It was then that he discovered, looking up, that Hermione Granger had completely disappeared. Instantly his body shot up, looking around with alarm. All he saw were dirt paths, emerald walls, and blue bell flowers. Draco felt his heart beating furiously inside his chest, a tangy, sweet flavor inside his mouth. He began to call out her name, feeling a thread of fear spooling through his chest.

"Granger?" he yelled.

ooooo

Hermione Granger landed on an armchair, wheezing for breath, her mind spinning from the sudden shift. When she had finally calmed herself down, she froze as she spotted what was underneath her feet. Crimson carpet. She was definitely not in the Malfoy gardens any longer.

Her neck snapped up, looking horrified as she suddenly found herself looking at a familiar face grinning welcomingly at her.

"_You_!" she gasped, a deep-set hammering exhausting her chest. She was still out of breath. Obviously one was not supposed to be summoned while in the act of snogging somebody. "You're – you're the one from the market –"

"Erick Bell, Miss Granger," he said mannerly, as he held out his hand to her. He was dressed in orange robes, sitting behind a big wooden desk full of trinkets and papers. There was a large map folded out on his table. She did not take his hand, and when he noticed so, only casually retrieved it. Hermione was looking around now, and she seemed to be in some sort of – "Office. You're in my office," he said, proving her assumptions to be true. "In the ministry. But don't worry, everyone's gone home for the day."

"What do you want with me?" Hermione demanded. "And how –"

"Simple summoning technique. But it's never quite got that after-effect, though, the shortness of breath you lapsed into." He looked contemplative. "Are you all right? You look a little flushed. You must've been doing something –"

"Why am I here?" she asked, her tone urgent. "And why have you been following me? Were you the one that burned down our –"

"Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn't involved in any of that. But, to answer your question, yes, I have been following you, but only because the ministry suspects some Dark activity that concerns you. I've had to tag along on some of your trips, and I am sorry if I frightened you, but it is my job. I am to protect you. You and Harry Potter."

"What?" she said unbelievingly. "What Dark activity?"

"I'm afraid that I cannot tell you. That is confidential business."

"But –"

"I do hope you cooperate, Miss Granger," he said. "I summoned you here for a reason. Lately I have not been able to track you. You must be in hiding," he said, giving her a look, "which is understandable, after that horrific ransacking –"

"Wait a minute, how do you know it was a –"

"Please don't interrupt me, Miss Granger," he told her. "Now, as I was saying, it is obvious that you have changed residences, and the ministry is worried. But, no matter, as long as you are kept safe and alive. But, now there is another concern: where is Harry Potter?"

"Harry?" she repeated, stealing her eyes away from the large trophy on his shelf. She recognized it from the papers. "I don't know."

"He isn't with you, correct?"

"Yes, he isn't. But what does it matter to you for?"

"We are trying to keep both of you safe, and in order for us to do so we have to have a knowledge of where you are staying just in case –"

"I don't know where he is," Hermione said firmly. "They didn't tell me."

Erick Bell was giving her a suspicious look. Something unpleasantly twitched on his face. "Do you know what an Auror is, Miss Granger?"

"Yeah," she responded cautiously, giving him a look, not quite knowing where this was going. "A Dark wizard catcher. Aurors are supposed to be the best."

"Exactly," he said, slapping his thigh. "The _best_. So don't you think that we are able to tell when we are being lied to?"

"I am _not_ lying to you!" exclaimed Hermione. "I don't even _know_ you! You caught a Death Eater, that's all I know. You were on the paper. How do I know this is _really_ for the ministry? The ministry didn't even believe that he was back –"

"We are fully aware now," he said, cutting her off, "of our mistake. A simple mistake. Could have happened to anybody. As for the authenticity of this, you needn't worry. We've been watching you for a long time now. It's been one of our priorities. We are just as eager on catching the Dark Lord as much as you are. So it's important that you be honest with us. We are only trying to help you. We are not your enemy."

Hermione scowled at him. "I don't know where he is."

"Are you absolutely positive of your answer, Miss Granger?"

Her brown eyes noticeably narrowed. "_I – don't – know – where – he – is_."

Erick Bell sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Very well then. You may go. But don't expect this to be our last encounter with each other, Miss Granger."

Her brows furrowed. "What do you me—"

But then she felt that same sensation again, of being pulled out from her surroundings, and where gravity turned to absolute mush, and she suddenly found herself landing very uncomfortably and very wetly –

In the Malfoys' garden fountain.

Hermione, taken by absolute surprise by both the sudden de-summoning and the splash of water that had gone straight up her nose when she arrived, was not very thrilled as the freezing water soaked her through and through and she wildly coughed for air. She felt dizzy, as was always the effect of summoning and back, and felt herself violently shivering in the pool of pristine water. It also did not help when the falling stream – as it was a fountain – was activated again and fell squarely on her head, flowing down her chest, now completely wetting her, as if she wasn't drenched enough already.

In all of her boisterous coughing, still painfully trying to get that water out of her nose, a certain blond-haired boy heard her and expertly came running out of the maze. He neared her quickly, calling out her name and grabbing her attention, as he was soon in front of the fountain, holding out his hand.

"Granger, where the _hell_ have you been? What happened? And how – how on earth did you end up in _here_?" he asked in a demanding voice, Hermione taking his hand as forcefully as she could, but the water had made her palm all too slippery, so Draco had to use his other hand to get her out as well. It was fairly easy to overlook the sudden jolt of electricity she felt when their palms connected because – well, she still had that coughing bit going on.

"I don't know – I was summoned –" she said, still coughing, as she felt the absolute weight of her body increase twice as much because of her saturated clothes as she stepped out of the fountain. Then, thankfully, Draco muttered a spell and tapped it on her dripping head, Hermione sighing out in relief, suddenly dry and very warm. She inhaled deeply, her hand flying up to her chest. "Erick Bell. The Auror. He asked me where Harry was."

Draco's face was now rigid at the mention of the Auror. "Are you sure?"

"I think I know what I saw, thanks," she said sourly.

"Then our trip's been cut short. We need to get back inside the manor and we need to owl Dumbledore. We can't waste anymore time."

Draco walked ahead back to the manor with Hermione behind him, but she was still feeling a bit weak from the summoning, so she couldn't help but lag a little. And Draco, certainly not having any more patience today and _more_ certainly not taking any more chances that she might disappear again, went back, grabbed her hand, and literally dragged her all the way to the door.

ooooo

Erick Bell was quite a young Auror, this was true. He received much acclaim for his talents, but was also burdened with prejudice and discrimination that came with young age in this type of business; take, for example, the fact that he was certain that if Hermione Granger had had an older Auror sitting before her and demanding some very important information, she would have relented. But, no, just because they were of the same generation she felt the need to be stubborn and petulant. And this was causing him a rather vast problem.

He sighed, looking down at the map on his desk. He had a few marks on it, indicating where some people were. Then he opened his drawer, the drawer he often kept locked, and took a piece of parchment out. He had found it in the pocket of the Death Eater he had caught, and thankfully had made a duplicate before the original note had crumbled away into ash, a clever and ancient defense mechanism for secret messages so that unwanted companies would not be able to find any evidence of their mission. But Erick Bell had the luck of looking upon it before its inevitable destruction.

He looked down on the scrawled note before him, his face grim.

_Find Hermione Granger._

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Ah, so the plot thickens! (Begins to sing) Draco's ass is grass… 

But **review**, eh? I mean, there _was_ kissing. I like to think that deserves _something_. Oh, and if anyone's got a** livejournal**, I recently just got a new one, and the link's on my bio page if you want to holler. Or, you know, friend me.


	10. How to Start a Fire

If It Was You

**A/N:** Tricky things with Aurors, I gotta say. Sorry for the unusually long wait… I was busy having too much fun. :P But! Let's get down to business! (By the way, one scene from here I borrowed from Felicity. The arm thing. Just because Keri Russell is _just_ like Hermione Granger, except with more sweaters.)

**How to Start a Fire**

Hermione followed Draco to his room, where he then quickly scribbled a note and gave it to a black bird – something that made her brows twitch with bemusement – that rapidly flew away from his window. She was sitting on the edge of his bed when he turned around and looked at her, a very serious look in his stony eyes. It was then made obvious that what had happened in the gardens would not even be considered for discussion until they figured this all out first; the Auror's involvement in their mission and Granger's summoning was far more urgent than that stolen kiss in the maze. And though that was further incentive for both Draco and Hermione to lock it out of their minds, just for right now, it did not help much as they stared at each other. Both then received rather vivid flashbacks of that moment, fiery and unexpected, and both looked away at the same time, clearing their throats.

To look at it objectively, the blame, really, should fall on Hermione Granger's plate. She had been the one to close the distance completely and, ultimately, kiss him first. But he had _neared_ his face towards her first. She wouldn't have even had the notion of kissing him had he stayed the required "personal space": two feet away from her. So it became a tricky thing. In Hermione's head things played a little bit more differently than it did in Draco's – it was a lot more nebulous and chaotic. And inside her skull all of her thoughts swarmed in like an ambush and Hermione could not feel any worse for kissing Draco Malfoy.

_Shit_.

_What_ the _hell_?

Now it would be very obvious to say that her life was plunged back into a deep and troubling turmoil. It wouldn't even serve any good to go describing it or anything, for she was in a _whole mess_ of trouble. And words wouldn't simply do the absolute panic and humiliation any justice. At all. It was beyond words.

Finally, after a few minutes of silence and self-evaluation, there came a fluttering of wings and Draco had his back turned to her again, tending to the raven that had a reply attached to its foot. Hermione watched the back of his head as he read the torn parchment. He then began to fold it back up again.

"Dumbledore's coming," he said to her.

"Oh," said Hermione, nodding. "That's-that's good."

Then things were quiet. Hermione's mind was frantic and she was tapping her fingers against her lap, her breaths quickening just a bit. Draco was watching her, leaning against his desk, just waiting for her to suddenly explode. For he perfectly knew about these moments of hers, where she was thinking everything over at such a rapid pace that if she wasn't so damned special she would have been concussed by her amazing brainpower by now. He almost even found himself smiling at the look on her face (all seriousness aside), as if she was in total agony, immersed in her concentration and borderline-freaky thoughts. Sure, the Auror business was serious, _serious_ stuff… but he couldn't help but slightly smirk at the fact that _she'd_ kissed _him_.

Take that, Potter.

Boo-_yah_.

"I told you not to kiss me," he suddenly heard her say. She'd hissed it out like she hated him, but he rightly knew that while she probably hated him, she still had enough in her to want to kiss him.

"_You_ kissed _me_, you lunatic."

"I know – I mean, I didn't – well, you neared your face towards me first" – just then, she glanced up, and froze, looking at him incredulously. "Are you _smirking_?"

He wiped the look off of his face, looking at her steadily. "I don't know what you're talking about," he drawled.

"The utter _nerve_!" Hermione exclaimed. "You were _smirking_! You were smirking at the fact that –"

"That you kissed me? Yes, I was! Is that what you bloody want to hear? _Yes_, I _was_ smirking! But I also smirk at things like little children tripping on rocks and falling flat on their faces! I even smirk when they start to cry!"

"Well, that makes me feel _loads_ better!" she spat. "I can't believe you!" she said, before shaking her head. "All this time… and you haven't changed at all." She scoffed. "I guess pricks never stop being pricks."

"You haven't changed, either, Granger," retaliated Draco. "You're still mad as hell and neurotic and have _massive_ mental issues. I mean, _you_ were the one that kissed _me_. After saying all of those things about hating me and then breaking my nose –"

"Yeah, well, you deserved it," said Hermione. "And – I _didn't_ kiss you."

Draco snorted very loudly.

"I wonder if that's Weasley's influence, your compulsive lying."

"I wonder if you know that you're looking at another broken nose."

"Oh, touché," he said dryly. "Face it, Granger. You still fancy me."

"Me? Fancying a ferret? I don't think so."

_Merlin_, what _was_ it with those ferret jokes?

"Well, if I can recall correctly, it's happened before."

She was glowering at him now, her hands clenching. "That _doesn't_ mean it's going to happen again. Do you want to know _why_ I kissed you? Because you're right. I've gone _completely_ bonkers. I really only wanted to see how it would feel to kiss a total bastard. And do you want to know how it feels?"

"Like heaven?"

"No, _absolutely_ horrible," she spat vindictively. "In fact, kissing my _arm's_ loads more exciting than kissing you. See?" She raised her arm and began to kiss it loudly while Draco watched her, amused. Then she stopped, glaring at him. "My _arm_!"

"Bollocks, Granger, complete and total bollocks you're feeding me here. I think you need some professional help. Your compulsive lying is getting a little unrealistic."

"How can you _possibly_ say that I still have feelings for you?" said Hermione, her voice rising in all her outrage. "You _lied_ to me!"

"Well, in all fairness, _you_ just lied to _me_ one second ago."

"T-that's different!" Hermione sputtered. "And-and – _shut up_, because I _wasn't_ lying! I've _moved_ on, Malfoy! _You've_ moved on! You don't _linger_ on a stupid _cad_ who hurt you with lies! And why would I possibly want to kiss you when-when every time that I think about you, or hear you, or see you, all I want to do is _rip_ the hell out of something? A-and _vomit_! What you're saying is _impossible_! I completely, entirely _loathe_ and _despise_ you!"

Damn straight, Hermione Granger. Damn straight.

Draco continued to look at her. "If that's really how you feel –"

"Yes, that is really how I feel," said Hermione, sighing, with narrowed eyes.

He smirked, pausing. "Then you're a liar."

Hermione growled.

"I'm not doing this. I give up. You – I'm not talking to you."

"That's because—"

"And it's _not_ because you're right," said Hermione warningly.

Fortunately, it was at that moment when Dumbledore suddenly appeared in front of them with a loud crack and a flurry of emerald robes, Hermione looking away with crossed arms as Draco greeted him in a manner a lot more polite than five seconds ago.

"Ah, Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy. What's this news I've heard? A summoning from an Auror?" said Dumbledore, completely oblivious to the tense and uncomfortable air around them.

Draco replied first. "Granger was summoned by Erick Bell to his office. She told me that –"

"He asked me about Harry," said Hermione, coldly cutting him off, ignoring the scowl Draco sent her once she did. "He asked me where he was, and that they'd been keeping an eye on the both of us. They know about the flat fire and the ransacking, which is bizarre, because I didn't even say anything about the ransacking. They also know that I've changed residences, which is reasonable. He insisted on knowing where Harry was. Said it was for our protection."

Dumbledore was looking very seriously at her beneath his round spectacles. "Ah. Your protection. The Ministry is very interested in you and Mister Potter."

"But why me?" asked Hermione, curious. "Is it because I live with him?"

Draco stiffened, looking at Dumbledore, wondering if he was going to tell her about the Absolution potion and its requirements. It was the window of opportunity to tell Granger that yes, they had been keeping things from her because, yes, she was a loony pigeon woman who would only play Potter's surrogate mother and screw everything up. That, and beat up boys named Draco Malfoy. Oh, wait, there was only _one_ boy named Draco Malfoy – and would you look it – had _already_ been beat up by her. _Un_canny.

Dumbledore played it off flawlessly. "It is because of your close relations to Mister Potter."

Meanwhile, Draco's silver eyes flickered to Hermione, watching her face as it creased in worry. All right, so the window of opportunity had been single-handedly shut by their former headmaster, who proved he could be a sly little bugger when he wanted to be. Apparently he had his own plans of when to reveal their "treachery" and "lies" (words of which were no strangers to Hermione Granger's vocabulary – he should know). He wondered when they would tell Granger the whole part of the plan – or, most likely, when she would find out. They couldn't sneak this around her for too long; Granger had a high perception of things that were intentionally hidden from her. He knew this as well. He'd been there. They could probably hide things from her for about a few more weeks, tops… unless…

Unless he kept her distracted.

"But what about Ron? Is he all right? I mean, the Auror might've –"

Oh, right. The Redhead. Totally forgot that he existed.

"Mister Weasley is just fine, and so is his family. We've evacuated them from their home and put them up at a temporary residency. We've put up decoys in the house. Just in case." He paused, looking at both Hermione and Draco. "Although, it seems to me that the Ministry is onto something here. It seems they're very intent on trying to keep their eye on you and Mister Potter." He raised his finger and it began to slightly bob in the air, Hermione watching as his silver ring glinted, as if he was counting something imaginary. Draco was looking at him as if he was mad.

"Hmm…" he said in an undertone, thinking to himself. Then he sighed. "There's something they're not telling us. The best thing to do would be to meet with this Auror. Erick Bell, did you say?"

Draco nodded.

"Yes, he also doubles as an extraordinary stalker," muttered Hermione.

"He summoned you," said Dumbledore quietly, speaking to himself again. "Summoned you… from the Malfoy Manor. Must be very powerful. Strange for a boy his age. Must've mastered summoning early. Finding Potter, then, should be very urgent if he'd summoned you right away. There's also a possibility that he tried to summon Potter himself, but he's too far and out of reception. There is only a limited range in which you could summon people. But he must've tried to _breach_ it. I need to talk to Remus." He looked up. "I will arrange for a meeting with this Auror. We will find out what it is he needs, who his alliances are. For these days it is very hard to clearly see the loyalties of men. Things are obscured by greed and vanity.

"Meanwhile, Mister Malfoy, you must look after Miss Granger and yourself. Do alert your mother of today's happenings as soon as you can. I will tend to the matters at school. I will meet with you again later, when I know more." He paused, as if thinking. "And do be careful. It is high alert around here, do not forget."

And then, within the blink of an eye and a short breeze that somehow smelled something like tangerines, he was gone.

Draco and Hermione were left in Draco's office. Alone. Together. There was a span of silence that threaded in which Hermione continued to sit there with a quizzical brow.

"Before you ask," Draco suddenly said, going over to his desk and trying to find something. "No, Granger, I do not want to make out with you."

Hermione let out a large snort. "Your ego never ceases to amaze me." Then she sighed, wearily rubbing her face with her hands. "What are we going to do? Like Dumbledore said, it's high alert. I doubt we can even leave the manor. But… we can't just sit here, can we?" She was frowning. "I've never felt so useless in my life. Usually when Harry goes on these things, Ron and I are—"

"Oh, please, Granger, spare me the sob story, all right?" Draco drawled. "We all know the story. You would go on adventures together. Then you would celebrate together. You'd do everything together. Bathe together, brush each other's hair – we've all heard it before. Why can't you just accept the fact that Potter doesn't need you? He's got to do this on his own. Are you daft or what? You've got everybody telling you this and still you act like he can't do anything himself."

If it'd been someone who knew better, one would think Draco sounded a bit bitter…

But really. If there was one thing that really grated Draco's nerves, it was the fact that everybody in the world – with the exception of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, thank God, or else that would've been the last straw – went to extreme lengths to baby the Golden boy. And maybe it was because of the miserably sorry past – you know, that whole my-parents-were-murdered thing, which was sad, but _come_ _on_ – but other times he just wanted to slap them straight upside the head.

All of them. In a row.

Especially Granger. It was like Potter 24/7 inside her head. And Draco really didn't like that. In fact, it was Draco's goal to _change_ that.

"I know he's supposed to do this by himself," huffed Hermione. "But it doesn't mean I can't help."

Draco stopped and looked up at her. "Without your help, Granger. We mean _without_ your help." Then he got back to what he was writing. "It's kill or be killed, remember? You don't want to be there when he gets killed, or be the one that he accidentally kills, just because you're standing in the way and you don't know it."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Right. I'm going to go. I need to think. Something's not adding up here." She had an odd feeling in the back of her mind that something was off. She was still even a bit overwhelmed because everything had happened so quickly and it was like one of those times when she couldn't comprehend it fast enough until it had already come and gone. Suddenly she wished Harry were already here so that she could talk to him. At least he wouldn't reply to everything she said with some sardonic quip.

"Don't look for any more secret doors," said Draco. "You'll be sorry."

"Yeah, I bet so," said Hermione, walking out.

Now, she wasn't necessarily looking for any more secret doors (she'd had enough of those, thanks – for proof, one could always check the back of her head where there lay a nasty, massive head wound), but she ended up walking around the manor. She walked through the hallways, ignored the quips the blond, boot-lodged-up-their-high-maintenance-bums Malfoy ancestry shot her, and often observed the staircases and wondered if she'd get in trouble if she'd slid down one of them. It was an incredibly childish thing to do, considering the fact that she hadn't done it since she was eight. And she remembered that it'd always made her feel a little bit better about things, although it was a stretch to think that, since she hadn't done it since she was a kid. She spent about five minutes staring at it, before she shook her head, descending the marble staircase the normal, less-fun, adult way.

Such rubbish.

She headed out into the gardens. She probably wasn't allowed to, since it was "High alert," but she figured she really needed some fresh air to think. Certainly, the manor was huge (try gi-normous), but sometimes she just felt a bit boxed in. The expensive trinkets and furniture did not assist in her analyzing segments. So that was how she found her feet standing right before the entrance to the emerald maze; she had a theory, a strange theory that if she'd voiced it aloud to any living person they would most likely send her to a psych ward. So this time she kept it to herself.

She was thinking that she could go into the maze, and by the time she made it out, however long it would take, she'd have the floaty feeling in the back of her skull all figured out and she wouldn't be feeling as if she was imprisoned in an itchy jumper any longer. The fact that her thoughts were all jumbled up in her head and she couldn't find some way to organize them or force them to make sense troubled her. Frustrated her, actually, in a very sad way. So sad that she entered the maze and then went back out in about two seconds, shaking her head and muttering to her pathetic self that stupid theories weren't going to solve her problems and only get her catastrophically lost in the Malfoys' vast English maze. Plus, she'd have a panic attack if she couldn't find her way out in an hour, and she'd have no way of asking for help, seeing that she was all alone in this desolate beautiful garden. Then she'd _really_ have to be sent to a psych ward.

Plus, Draco would throw a hissy fit, and she figured she didn't really need that right now. She realized she sort of hated getting into those shouting matches with Draco because it was when, uncannily, she was emotionally and verbally vulnerable. She just tended to say things that sometimes made her want to slap herself afterwards.

Yeah, not a nice feeling.

So she settled down by the fountain, chewing on her bottom lip, sighing every five minutes. She was thinking about the Auror. Recalling back to it, she'd remembered he'd had a rip on his robes, right on his sleeve… there'd been a patch stitched on. Perhaps if she went back to their flat at Cheshire Fox (Dumbledore had charmed it with an illusion spell to conceal the burnt and destroyed remains to make it appear like a perfectly normal flat to curious Muggles) she could find something. She had a niggling feeling that the Auror had a connection to the ransacking. . . . Sure, the Ministry appeared frighteningly omniscient sometimes, and perhaps it wasn't so unrealistic for the Auror to know it had been ransacked without anybody telling him so. But there was just _something_ about it. There'd been that glint in his eye, that twitch beside his wiry mouth that had drawn him in to be a dubious character to Hermione.

Now she just had to prove it.

Hermione immediately got to her feet, running past the colorful array of flowers, passing the trails of blended fragrance they gave out. Her feet pounded against the smooth concrete, and then on the soft grass, before she snatched the bronze handle of the door, sprinting inside. Breathing hard, she stopped for a minute to figure out which staircase she was supposed to take to find Draco. Her brown eyes flickered to the right and left with urgency, before she took the one on the left, relying on her gut instinct, quickly ascending the stairs. She then entered a corridor.

"Malfoy? Malfoy!" she began to call out. "_Malfoy_!"

She opened all of the doors, looking in, before trying all of the other ones. She wasn't very concerned with the fact that it was very rude to just go peeping and barging in people's rooms, but got very exhausted, for the Malfoy Manor seemed to have a _thousand_ rooms. Finally, as she went into another corridor, calling out his name, a door opened up ahead, and out popped the pale, narrow face of Draco Malfoy.

"Granger? What is it?" He looked a little annoyed.

Hermione was breathing hard, heading towards him. "We've got to go back to the flat. Right now."

"The flat? But you heard Dumbledore, we can't—" He was looking at her concernedly now, his silver eyes darkening. Hermione was looking into his face with a wild look in her eyes. She neared him and now they were face to face. "Did something happen? What did you do?"

"No," she said quickly. "But I think – I remember seeing something back at the flat that could give us a clue about the Auror. Just trust me. I need you to Apparate us out of here. We'll only be there for a minute."

Draco let out a tight sigh, still looking at her underneath his blond hair, his jaw clenched, as if trying to decide whether he should trust her. Then he looked away, past her head, checking if anyone was watching. "Fine. But if something happens, then we're out of there. I can't be held responsible for anything that happens to you because of your spastic mental disabilities. We're going to have to side-along. This manor's only going to let you Apparate out unless you have Malfoy blood, or _are_ with Malfoy blood. Except the Order."

Hermione was standing in front of him, feeling her heartbeats quicken with anticipation. Her palms were sweating. She took a step toward him, and he held his hand out to her, his white palm seemingly larger than she'd ever remembered. Swallowing hard, Hermione placed her hand on his, her dainty fingers engulfed by the length of his as they entwined, pressing their palms together, and she felt her heart jump from the connection – as if she'd just felt a shock of electricity. She avoided his eyes and instead kept her gaze glued on their hands.

"A minute, Granger," he reminded her, but before she could nod in agreement, she'd felt a strong force grab them from behind along with a strong wind, a gray haze whirling around them. Inside her ears was a loud roaring, like the sound of the sea, until she felt her dangling feet land on something solid again. Hermione opened her eyes – she hadn't even realized she had closed them –, hearing the crunch underneath her shoes. She looked around, letting go of Draco's hand, her eyes taking in the charred remains of their flat again. She felt a little thorn in her throat, spanning it all now, but she cleared it away and focused on what she was looking for again.

She kept her head down, looking at the ground, using her feet and then her hands to search through the broken bits of furniture. Once or twice she got stabbed by some random spike of wood, but absentmindedly moved past that. There was a flickering scene in her head, an image, from the first time she'd arrived here when Draco, Harry, and Dumbledore had been waiting for her. She'd spotted something on the ground, hidden underneath the rubble. Of course, in the urgency of the events that quickly followed, it was easy to forget all that, especially with the discovery that she would have to be living underneath her ex-boyfriend's roof for a bit while her friend was being sent away, and it had only been in the garden when she had been determinedly thinking that she'd somehow managed to latch onto that tidbit of memory again. She just hoped that someone hadn't gotten here before she had, maybe had stolen that piece of evidence she needed away…

"Granger, what exactly are you looking for?" came the drawl of Draco Malfoy from above her. "You're going to hurt yourself, there are shards of glass all around – look, you're already bleeding."

"Yes, I know," said Hermione distractedly. She got up and moved to another part, getting down on her knees again.

"Granger –"

"There," she said, wiping her hand on the fabric of her jeans, the streak of blood almost unrecognizable against the dark material. "Happy now? Just… just be quiet for a bit, all right? I'm trying to remember something. The Auror might have left something behind, so that we can prove he had something to do with it…"

Draco's brow twitched. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"

"I only remembered today, out in the gardens, when I was thinking."

"But he could've come while we were gone and collected the evidence—"

"Yes, I know," said Hermione wearily. "But just bear with me. He just might have been preoccupied enough with trying to find Harry that he'd forgotten."

"Ah, yes, relying on human error. That's always a foolproof plan."

"Look, Malfoy, I'm only trying to help. So stop with the snide remarks, all right?" Hermione snapped, irritated, brushing past a shattered picture frame. "In fact, stop bitching and help me."

Draco scowled at her, disagreeing with her choice of words. Draco Malfoy did not _bitch_, all right? Was he _bitching_? No. He was being cynical and sarcastic. That was _not bitching_. "I wasn't bitching. I don't bitch," he pointed out to her.

Hermione snorted. "The devil is a liar."

"I will have you know—"

"Oh, shut up. Help me look for a piece of orange robes. It should be small, but big enough to spot…" Then she trailed off. "Holy cricket, here it is."

Draco's head snapped up in her direction as he saw Granger holding up a frayed piece of dirtied orange fabric. It was just a sliver, a strip that could easily be lost in this sort of chaotic mess, but her face glowed with victory as she held it up in front of her. Then she stood up, patting it to get the ash out, before she appeared next to him, showing it to him.

"When I was summoned today, he was wearing orange robes, just like this. I noticed that there was a torn part in his sleeves that had been patched up. My grandmother used to sew, so I could tell he'd just sown it recently. The stitches were perfect and intact – plus, thread colors tend to fade easily within a few washes. The color of his was still vivid, brand new. He was here. Not only was he responsible for the ransacking, he'd been responsible for the fire, as well. He'd burnt down our flat down to cover up the fact that he'd been searching for something."

Draco stared at the piece of fabric. "Isn't that going a bit too far? Yes, it does certainly seem as if he was responsible for the ransacking, and here is clearly the proof, but how do you know he was responsible for the fire?"

"Well, it all matches up, doesn't it? If the Death Eaters had been the ones to start the fire, they would have gone all out – a message on the wall written with blood, or a threat note from Voldemort himself. But all there was—"

"Was nothing," Draco finished off for her, his face grave. He could hear the clicking inside his brain now, the gears beginning to turn. "That does make sense. I know the Death Eaters; they attack in a certain pattern. They have signatures. Voldemort would have made sure Potter knew he was coming after him."

"Exactly," Hermione breathed, her outtake of air softly brushing against the side of Draco's face.

"Well," said Draco, sighing. "I'll be damned."

"Not a very careful Auror," said Hermione. "Like you said, human error. Never fails."

"I got to say, Granger," said Draco, looking at her. "I'm impressed." Then he knocked his fist against her head, and Hermione winced, yelling out in protest. "I was just checking if you had brains of steel. Apparently not, since you're bitching about it."

"I was not bitching," growled Hermione, clutching her head.

"Pot and kettle, Granger. Pot and kettle."

ooooo

They Apparated themselves to Dumbledore's office. Now, there were the infamous barriers against said intruding, but because of "High Alert," Dumbledore had cleverly invented a way of only letting in certain people – exclusive rights, almost. Draco was one of those people with exclusive rights, and Granger – well, only because she was with Draco. They'd had to side-along again, but Draco had insisted on bandaging up her hand first, just because it was so damned nasty. He'd actually first been going to offer to heal it up completely with his wand, but that had been too nice of a thing for him to do; it was too atypical in this situation. And she never asked, so it was just the bandages and nothing else.

Dumbledore had been surprised at their sudden arrival – in fact, he'd been having tea and was just in the middle of sipping it when he looked up and found them there. It was seldom that their former headmaster was ever startled by anything, so it was sort of shocking when the old man suddenly spilled the tea all over the front of his robes. Of course, Granger acted as if she'd been walking on coals and offered to clean him up, but he declined mannerly, chuckling to himself, as he got a cloth handkerchief from his dresser and wiped down his dripping beard.

"Didn't expect the pair of you to drop by so soon," he said, before he suddenly caught on, and his face became grim. He left his beard alone. "Has something happened?"

"Something has," Draco replied. "We went back to the flat—"

"Now, Mister Malfoy, you do remember what I said about keeping put—"

"I found something," Hermione firmly cut in. Dumbledore's attention, obviously a little surprised, shifted over to Hermione, who dug inside her pocket and held up the strip of orange material. "I remembered seeing something when I first got to our flat, and when I was summoned earlier today, I saw that the Auror was missing a patch of his robes. Orange robes, exactly like this," she said, wiggling the material. "Sir, please don't get angry with Draco – I was the one who insisted on going."

Dumbledore was silent, staring at the orange cloth.

"Headmaster," said Draco, "we have reason to believe that Erick Bell was responsible for the ransacking and the fire. The Death Eaters had no part in this."

He looked up at Draco with his crystal blue eyes. "Well done, Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger. Very good investigative work. I have already set up a meeting with Mister Bell for tomorrow afternoon. He has willingly obliged to meet with me. However, we are still left in the dark about the ministry. Did the Ministry support Mister Bell's decision in trying to draw you and Mister Potter out?" he said coolly, now looking at Hermione. "Or was that, in fact, his intention? He could have also been trying to make it look like the Death Eaters. . . . What we have here is a very slick Auror. I've read over his documents. He's famous for his tactics, his way of going about to capture people – not for his power."

"But what's he trying to draw us out for?" said Hermione. "He's only making it easier for the Death Eaters."

"It is unclear what he is trying to do. My biggest priority right at the moment is to find out where Mr. Bell's loyalty lies. The ministry has become a very twisted place. Then I will try to persuade him into telling me his plans."

"The ministry, he said that they were keeping a close eye on us."

"That doesn't surprise me the least bit. There's two reasons why Mr. Potter and you are their priorities: one, they're keeping a close watch so that they'll know when Voldemort is coming, and, hence, get there first. Unfortunately, now, the ministry likes to show off with its Aurors. Second, they want to keep you quiet. Make sure you don't leak anything out to anyone."

"So you don't believe this Auror?" asked Draco. "About only trying to protect them?"

"I believe him," said Dumbledore. "But it's very obscured right now. Mister Bell has a bit of a glory streak – it makes sense that they would appoint him this mission. But I worry he will interfere with our plans. He seems intent on trying to find Potter and perhaps even knows that Miss Granger is staying at the manor, with you. If he already knows too much information it would only be logical to include him in our plans so that a collision won't occur."

"_Include_ him?" echoed Draco, dumbstruck. "He could spill everything out to the ministry, and then they're going to swoop in and try to battle the Dark Lord themselves. And, in their stupidity, only ruin everything. Or – they could be dense enough to try and use Granger and Potter as bait!"

Hermione stiffened beside Draco. "They-they wouldn't do that, would they?"

Dumbledore sighed. "That is very unclear right now, Miss Granger. The rising of the Dark Lord has never ceased to cause tumult within the public. My suggestion to you is to get some rest. Think no more about this matter. And certainly do not go off on any more missions outside the manor. While I appreciate the efforts, and certainly the information you have brought, I cannot emphasize the threat enough. It is important that you stay inside the manor."

He shot a warning look to Draco. "And you, Mister Malfoy, you shan't serve as an accomplice unless I say."

Hermione found herself almost scowling at Dumbledore, annoyed with him. It was perfectly clear that he only wanted them to be safe, but he was going a bit overboard. And it wasn't Draco's fault at all. If anything, he should be getting angry with _her_ – this had been her idea from the start.

Apparently, Draco was thinking the same exact thing, because there was a scowl twitching on his face. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now go back to the manor. Have dinner. I will see the pair of you tomorrow. I will inform the Order with everything you have just told me. And get much rest. You are going to need it."

ooooo

Dinner was quiet. It was only Draco and Hermione this time, as Narcissa was running a little late. Hermione was playing with her food on her plate, her brow furrowed in thought, passing it from one corner of the china to the other with her shiny fork. She'd only taken a few sips of her pumpkin juice. Draco had been watching her for the past three minutes. She was obviously tortured by something – it was all over her face.

He'd tried ignoring it but the sound of the fork scraping against the china was bugging the living wits out of him.

He sighed exasperatedly.

"What is it, Granger?" he asked, though not really wanting to know. "Your face screams 'anxiety issues.' And stop that, will you? You're ruining the china."

She looked up. "Has Dumbledore always been like that?" she suddenly exploded, her eyes glinting. "Th-that _anal_ about things? Uptight, and prim," she said, stabbing her mashed potatoes with her fork.

Suddenly the scraped china was forgotten.

"I don't know," he said, looking at her amusedly. "You tell me."

"It's just that I don't see what he's so concerned about. Our safety, yes, but don't you feel as if they just _stick_ us in hiding and then they get to do everything else? It's a little unfair. I mean, I'm perfectly capable of getting out there, too."

Draco groaned. "Oh, you basketcase, not this again."

"I'm only saying," snapped Hermione. "I deserve a little bit of the action, too."

"You're a valuable tool in all of this, Granger, that's all the action you need. Get this: you get out there, you get action, you get captured. You get captured, they use you as bait, they capture Potter. They capture Potter – bam, it's the end of the world."

"No it isn't," Hermione said, looking at him oddly, chewing her carrots. "If they capture Harry, he has to fight Voldemort. There's no guarantee he'll lose at all."

Draco stared at her.

Oh, right. She didn't know about the Potion.

Oops.

Damn it, see, this was what he was talking about. She had her slimy ways.

She was giving him The Stare. If her eyes narrowed just a little bit more, then he was in trouble.

"Yeah, but Potter's Potter," said Draco quickly. "A teenage boy against a full-grown Creature from the Depths of Hell?" He shook his head. "His chances are of the same as a snowflake surviving in Hades. Zero. That's why Dumbledore and the Order are so panicked about buying time so they can train him. They all think he doesn't stand a chance." He was smirking at this.

Fortunately, just like every other time he'd insulted Potter, it got her off her original train of thought. She scowled. "You still haven't told me how you got dragged into this. Showing up at my flat, acting like a Death Eater for a day to break up with me, and then suddenly trying to be a hero. Seems like you sold out to me." She stabbed into her mashed potatoes again.

"I'm not trying to be a hero," snapped Draco. "I'm never going to be part of your little club. And I _haven't_ sold out," he clarified. "I still hate all of you," he muttered. "Righteous pricks."

Hermione laughed loudly, so loudly that it startled Draco. "Rich!" she exclaimed. "That's very rich, Draco Malfoy. If you hate all of us, then why are you trying to help us? Shouldn't you be on the other side? In fact, maybe you're on both sides." She gave him an accusing look at this. "I just find it hard to believe you'd do whatever it takes to help the Good side win. You say that you haven't sold out. Then that means you're still one of _them_."

"What do you want, proof?" Draco barked at her, his temper flaring up in big sparks. "You want me to show you my arm? Will that satisfy you, you bloodsucking lunatic?" He then furiously hitched up his sleeve, baring his left forearm to her. There was nothing there except… well, whiteness. _Extreme_ whiteness. Boy, he really needed to get a tan. "There, are you _happy_? _No_ Dark Mark."

Hermione stared at his arm.

"You know what, Granger?" he continued, vastly annoyed. "I don't have to prove anything to you. I don't have to prove that I'm on your side, and that maybe, just maybe, I think the greater good is something we could all work on. I don't have to prove that I'm not one of _them_. I'm sorry that I'm not begging for your forgiveness for what I did to you. But you're just being a _bitch_ now, all right? Constantly jumping down my throat for everything, never being able to accept the fact that— I mean, I _helped_ you today. Doesn't that _mean_ anything to you?"

She swallowed hard, looking straight into his irate gaze. Angry goose bumps had broken out across her skin, his voice thundering against the silent environment. The small flames on the candle piece in the middle of the table flickered. She was clutching her utensils tightly, feeling the silver embedding into her hands.

In the heated mush inside her skull she found that she was torn between two things. One was telling him that she was sorry for acting so horribly the past few days, because obviously she had affected him with her venomous disposition – perhaps more so than she had hoped. The second one was to continue acting like said bitch and tell him – nay, spit at him – that he wasn't worth her forgiveness anyway. Yes, it did hurt her to a terrible extent that her forgiving him did not matter to him – but it wasn't so much of a surprise. He didn't love her, remember? Not like she'd loved him. And maybe that was the difference between a person who had loved someone and the other who hadn't. Certain things mattered, and some did not.

It was just a tad bewildering about how their banters could turn into something much more serious – something that actually stabbed the sore wound in her heart, or caused the gross wound on the back of her head to suddenly ache again. Hermione opened her fist and let go of her utensils, not flinching at the clanging noise it made when it hit the surface of her plate.

Draco rigidly sighed, suddenly looking away from her, down at his plate. "Forget it. I'm not hungry." Then he stood up, snatching away his fancy lap napkin and carelessly throwing it down at the table. He didn't say another word to her as he left the room, and Hermione stood frozen at her seat, staring at where he had just been a moment ago.

Strange now how the tables had turned. A little. A very small part of Hermione Granger tugged on the tendons attached to the ligaments in her foot, also pleading with gravity to let go for just this one second so she could just _get off her bum_ and go after him – but was that what he wanted? Would that be the best thing for the both of them? Or were there best things for two people – could life merely be separated into what was best for one person, and what was best for the other person was completely different and out of reach? Oh, bollocks, she didn't know what she was thinking. It was just one of those moments after something bizarre and startling happens. The aftershock. And in the desolate pit of it all, despite her resentment, she somehow managed to latch onto that small window inside of herself that hadn't been painted over with her self-pity and hurt and came to the realization that she had deserved what he had said to her.

Of course, there was an internal battle that came with it. There was a strong voice that shouted No, she didn't deserve it. But then she came to her senses. And albeit Hermione's tendency to always Do the Right Thing and Always Be Right and Have No (Visible) Faults, Draco Malfoy had smacked her right in the face with that one.

And, well, shit.

Wasn't this an exciting day.

Hermione quietly finished up her dinner, alone, by herself. Then she blew out the candles on the mantelpiece (she'd already gotten one of her residences burned down, she didn't need another one – even if this was just a temporary lodging). She went up to her room and tried an old trick she'd used to do during her years at Hogwarts; she recited the many versions of _Hogwarts: A History_. But then she discovered that it didn't make her feel as good as it used to. Then she thought about Draco Malfoy. A few minutes later, she got up to take a long, long bath.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Post-A/N:** More chapters coming VERY SOON (to compensate for that M.I.A. month)! (Seriously.) Scout's honor. But, in the meantime, please review, even if it's to yell at me for the long one-month wait. That's cool, too.


	11. The Bell Jar

If it was you

**A/N:** The eleventh chapter! I didn't think we'd get here so fast. All right, this is mostly dealing with the Auror and whatnot because obviously you need that. And – gasp! Dumblydore kills somebody! Or knocks 'em out. Whatever.

A SUPER Thanks to my beta, **Johnnie Blue**, who always seems to understand what is running through my head when I'm writing what I'm writing. And she knows exactly how to crack me up. So three cheers for her.

**The Bell Jar**

Dumbledore informed Draco by owl that he would meet with both Draco and Hermione after he had met with Erick Bell – it seemed as if the Auror had requested only a private audience with him and would not feel very comfortable in the presence of anybody else. Draco could not help but scoff at said letter – perfectly predictable for the man to want to be alone with Dumbledore. Probably worried that they would see right through him, or something.

He'd gone down for breakfast and he was surprised to see Granger there, too, reading the Daily Prophet, and they'd just stared at each other for a while, like they didn't know how to act around each other or what to do after last night. Last night meaning Draco's little retribution and little outburst. Because, really, he was so tired of her Angry Banshee act. He could deal with the fact that she was angry, and maybe even the fact that she hated him (then again, that wasn't much to get used to; she always seemed to hate him on some level), but he really hated it when people started to act like brats, which she had been doing. He could tell one of the reasons why she'd become so unbearable and truly insufferable was because she was now dealing with conflicting emotions as well – _hello_, had that righteous kiss hinted something very big to him and no one else? Obviously she was still smitten with him – on some level.

Well, duh, no one could resist the charms of Draco Malfoy. Not even Hermione Granger, it seemed like. A part of him even felt like popping out the champagne.

He sat down beside her, at the Head position of the table, while she was to his right.

"Uh," she said, blinking, her hair still in a laughably fluffy mess and clad in her pajamas. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Don't be ridiculous, you mental case," Draco said, hearing his mug fill up with some coffee. "We're adults. We don't have to avoid each other because one of us blurted out the angry, blunt truth." A hot breakfast appeared on his plate, steaming from the kitchens. "Besides, you deserved it. Don't even try to lie and say you didn't, because I can read you like a book, Granger," he said, finally looking up at her, and looking her straight in the eye.

Hermione felt a metal twinge in her chest.

"You _knew_ you were acting like a bitch. I can tell you're one of those angry types who hold grudges against people. All the symptoms are there. Aggressive, violent behavior. Aggressive, violent _history_. Apparent lapses into insanity. Stuttering."

"If I am one of those types," she said, a bit snippy, "it's only because you made me that way."

Draco continued to look at her, but something on his face softened – something very microscopic that even Hermione might have missed it if she'd done so much as blinked. She felt very uneasy as he looked at her that way, like he was thinking, but about _her_ – right in front of _her face_. Well, that had never happened before, and in all honesty it caused all sorts of weird reactions to occur inside her body. She couldn't look away, though. That was the thing. Damn Draco Malfoy always had this _thing_ where if he got you, he wouldn't let you go – wouldn't let you look away, or anything, and even if you tried you just _couldn't_. So she just found herself looking at him, her heart drumming inside her ribcage.

Then he looked away and started to eat. "If I can recall correctly, you were barmy even before we were together."

Hermione, flustered, felt her cheeks color. "I can't believe you," she found herself saying – because it was the only thing she _could_ say. "Just because I have agreed to cooperate for the sake of Harry and this mission does not mean that things between us are okay. And yes, you might have been right. But you –"

"Lied to you, I know," Draco sighed exasperatedly. "Stop trying to throw that in my face. I lied to you, oh, call the ministry," he said, mocking her, and Hermione scowled at him. "Granger, look, you must have known that things between us could never have worked out. I mean, you're stupid – but you're not _that_ stupid. I know you knew it as well as I did. There were just too many things… in the way of that."

If Hermione looked very closely, very closely, she might have been able to catch the sadness that flickered in his eyes just for a second, like a sudden dullness against the magnificent silver sheen, but it was gone before she could spot it.

"And you didn't love me," she suddenly said, in the rash way a delusional person would. Her voice was a little constricted, but she'd said it to make a point. What point, maybe she'll think of one later.

Draco stiffened. His eyes flickered up to his goblet, then back to his plate. "Yeah, right," he said in his usual drawl. "And that, too."

Thank you, Hermione Granger, for making things awkward again.

And for making Draco Malfoy wanting to beat the hell out of you.

But as she looked down on her own plate and Draco looked down on his, both were feeling two very similar emotions: knifelike guilt and sadness. Maybe even a little resentment. Because no matter how much Hermione was so keen on forgetting what had happened – she couldn't – and it was the same with Draco: he made himself believe he didn't love her. And then he saw her again. And then all efforts beyond that were futile. But why had he just so easily lied to her right now? Because even if he had told her the truth she wouldn't have believed him. Even if he had told her the truth she wouldn't have even _tried_ to believe him. So telling her that he did love her before would serve to no utter purpose.

Besides, knowing her, she'd only probably tell another ferret joke.

Wench.

"But… just because I didn't… I _liked_ you," he mended. "And I didn't want to hurt you. Not like that."

Hermione felt something in her throat.

Oh God, that hurt to hear. She didn't know why, and if she were another person sitting here right now, another girl, it probably wouldn't have hurt as much. But it just did. She had these moments where she imagined him saying this to her, and even in those imaginary scenarios it was a blurry reaction – from her. She never knew how to respond. To tell him that he did hurt her, and that it never mattered who meant what, because he _did_ hurt her, and it was irreversible. And some part of her really didn't want to hear this because she was convinced that if she even relented one more step towards possible redemption for Draco Malfoy, in her eyes, for what he did to her, everything would change. Really change. And she was mostly scared for that. That if she even started to forgive him – he would find some way to mess her all up again.

Lord, and that was just awful, wasn't it? Being afraid of getting hurt? Sure, everyone was on some level, but it was like that thing when you try something, and you're convinced about it, and then it all ends up shit and bugger. And then you never want to do it again. Because you're traumatized.

"Holy shit, Granger, are you crying?"

Merlin's panties, _was_ she?

"No," she snapped. "No, I'm not."

"You know I hate it when you cry."

"Well, I'm not, so you can stop pretending like you care now."

"I swear," Draco said, taking a bite of his breakfast, "women cry over everything. You say something bad, they cry. You say something nice for a change, they cry. It's like a damn waterfall."

"I _wasn't crying_. Why would I cry over you? That's just a waste of tears."

"Oh, now you're just saying that to spite me."

Draco continued to eat his breakfast and Granger awkwardly got back to the Daily Prophet. Draco didn't even mention that it was _his_ issue, because that was one of the sacrifices one has to make when one is still in love with a deranged girl.

Sharing.

"Any news from Dumbledore?" she asked from behind the paper. Draco tried to read the headlines on the back.

"Owled me this morning. He's going to meet with the Auror alone. The Auror only wants to talk to him, which, if you think about it, already shows that he's nervous about the meeting. But after the meeting he's going to summon us, to brainstorm. We've got to come up with a plan fast. Potter's going to be coming back soon from that island, and we can't go parading him around without a solid plan to defeat the Dark Lord. Of course, it all relies on Potter," said Draco, though his tone was dry and mocking. "Whether he's got the balls to actually do whatever we propose."

Suddenly, the paper lowered. Two doe-like brown eyes stared back at him. It was like when you're trekking in the woods or something, and then you suddenly look up to see two glowing, eerie eyes watching you from the darkness. They had that sort of mystical quality. Hermione's Granger's eyes were _just like that_. And – to think about it, she really reminded him of one of those deer. Like Bambi. The sort of deer that when you see them just standing there you want to throw stones at but you're never able to because there's just something about them that makes you feel as nice as hell. And nice people don't throw rocks at deer.

"Harry's going to be coming back soon?"

Draco froze.

Shit.

"That's the rumor. But, you know, rumors. Usually they aren't true."

Then the two big brown eyes narrowed.

Uh-oh. Angry Bambi.

"You're keeping something from me, aren't you?"

Draco snorted. "And you're delusional. Where are those crazy Muggle pills of yours? I think you need to take them now."

She began to fold up the paper, but very calmly – which was what struck Draco as very odd. His spine stood rigid and he watched her from the corner of his eye. When she was done folding it up all nice and neatly into a very immaculate square, she folded her hands on top of it, just looking at him.

"So, when were you going to tell me?"

"That you folded the newspaper wrong?"

"Don't play games with me, Malfoy."

"Granger, if I was playing a game with you, it'd involve handcuffs."

Her voice lowered, obviously not in the mood for his naughty quips. "Why didn't you tell me about the plan?"

"What plan?" he said calmly, looking her in the eye. "There is no plan. Unless you count the one involving you and a straitjacket."

She was silent for a bit, just looking at him, and that very well already told Draco that she wasn't giving up on this issue. Of course, he didn't even have to think about that. Hermione Granger was like a mule, or a donkey. Stubborn as chewed gum on hair. She wasn't the type to ever give up on anything without getting what she wanted. And luckily, he knew just how to handle her.

So bring it on, Granger.

Bring it on.

"Watch your back, Malfoy," she told him calmly, before getting up to leave.

"Oh, Granger, I'm already there."

ooooo

Erick Bell was a skinny, gangly sort of man. Marinated for the Auror occupation since he was sixteen years old, he used to wear corrective lenses until his apparent lack of vision was "miraculously" healed. He was privately schooled. His father was an Auror until he was killed in duty. He'd been one of the best bets and the ministry had been grooming him because they favored the thought that he'd turn out just like his old man. Well, his old man had been sort of fat. His old man also sort of drank a lot. So maybe the ministry wasn't looking for an _exact_ replica. Besides, Bell was far more advanced than his father had been at his age, and that meant a great many things. Erick's main ambition was to be the single greatest Auror in the world.

Sitting in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts was not as daunting as people made it out to be. It was a circular place, cozy, a little small. There were a lot of trinkets and ancient books and he spotted a bowl filled to the brim with lemon drops. In the rubbish bin there were the empty wrappers of the lemon drops. He'd never met Albus Dumbledore before, but he was very aware of his reputation and past. Many respected him. But from the things he had merely observed from his office he concluded that the man was slightly ridiculous – nothing to be threatened by at all.

"Ah, Mister Bell," he heard a quiet but merry voice say behind him, as an old man with a white long beard suddenly walked past him, settling in his chair behind his large oak desk. He had sapphire eyes that danced beneath his half-moon glasses and an easy smile. They shook hands.

"Headmaster," said Bell.

"Thank you for coming. May I offer you a lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, raising up the bowl. Erick declined. "Oh, shame. These are lovely."

"It's a beautiful school."

"Thank you." Albus popped a lemon drop inside his mouth. "Do you know the story of Salazar Slytherin? I assume that you do; it is a widely circulated tale. It is one of the reasons Voldemort is in existence, after all. Salazar was a man who was willing to do anything for what he believed was right. Unfortunately, sometimes we blind ourselves with our own wants by convincing our minds that it is not our wants – but is actually the right way of the world. Brainpower is a very significant element. Sadly, the psyches of wizards and men are now so forceful that it is now a common thing." He paused, looking closely at the Auror. "Mister Potter and Miss Granger are former students of mine, and they are also under my guard. What is your business with them?"

"I'm an Auror," Bell coolly replied. "I work for the Ministry. Our job is to protect our citizens from Dark powers and prevent any fatal attacks. I am simply doing my job. It is not a matter to fret about; our only intention is to protect Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and annihilate the Dark Lord."

"I'm afraid the enemy is a bit harder than you imagine."

"We'll take our chances."

"I have been told that you have been following Miss Granger. Is that really necessary?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Crucially so. I know everything there is to know about You-Know-Who's case. I know all about the potion, and Charleston VanMussen. I have been clever enough to tie everything together – that is why I have been after Hermione Granger. I must protect her lest they come and take her. That is our highest priority."

Dumbledore studied him silently for a moment. "You are aware of the prophecy, aren't you, Mister Bell?" he said quietly. "Only Mister Potter can defeat Voldemort." Erick Bell did not even flinch at the sound of his name. "Yet you make it sound as if… you want to do the job yourself."

"I want to help Potter. The _ministry_ wants to help. We cannot just stand by while everything rests on the shoulders of a young boy. We are eager to assist you. But first we must know the location of Harry Potter. It is not safe for us to be kept in the dark about these things, Albus, especially if we are allies. We must keep a close watch on him, but such is impossible if he is no longer here."

"I assure you that he is in the safest of hands."

"But where?"

"I'm afraid that is private business, Mister Bell."

"But I must know if we are to work together. I have a lead on the Death Eaters," he said urgently, a wild look about him. "We must do everything we can to deflect their attention from Potter, don't you understand?"

"I understand very well, in fact. But I am sorry to tell you that we have no need for the Ministry's help. We are just fine. Mister Potter is fine. He is currently undergoing some training. But I thank you for your interest."

"The target of our interest is not for you to decide," countered Erick in a firm tone. "And our interest cannot be averted unless what needs to be done is done. Vold – You-Know-Who's business is our business. Our job is to protect the wizarding world. We cannot allow –"

"This is a very dangerous game," Dumbledore gravely interrupted him. "Lives will be lost. Do not be silly in thinking that Voldemort will show mercy to anyone – he is merciless even toward his own kind. Are you willing to really risk that? And, for another, Mister Bell, I am not familiar with you. I do not know if you can be trusted. Words are words. Words can be manipulated to be something good when it is truly evil, or even evil when it is truly good. You must understand my qualms about being considered your ally. Are you steadfast in your loyalty? Or can you be swayed by bribes of power and wealth? Think carefully about these questions. And even then, even if you tell me that you are steadfast, one cannot truly know unless you come face to face with Voldemort himself."

"My loyalty cannot be broken down by the likes of that demon," Bell replied, a little sharply. "I shall stare him right in the face myself. I will not back down. He killed my father. The memories of death cannot be bribed away."

Dumbledore looked at him intently.

"The ministry has become a dodgy place. It is not what it used to be."

Erick Bell stared him down. "I am your ally. I will keep everything confidential if you allow me to help – I will keep it even from the ministry if it is required of me. But I _have_ to be a part of this. I have to avenge my father's death. I _have_ to help Harry Potter win." He was passionate in saying this, with the way his eyes squinted slightly and his hands shrunk down into fists. Dumbledore could see all that. But he could not connect a few things about the boy – some things did not make sense. Passion was good. But sometimes too _much_ passion – _feeling_ too much in what they were about to do only hindered things. Passion could turn into foolishness, and rashness. That was one thing that bothered him.

Dumbledore pressed his lips together. "Tell me something, Mister Bell. Why did you burn down Mister Potter's and Miss Granger's flat?"

The Auror did not seem surprised at all at Dumbledore's question, neither was he shocked at the fact that he'd found out. He had a reason for every single thing that he did, and this one was no exception.

"Urgency," he replied frostily. "They needed to hide. They weren't acting fast enough. In no time, the Death Eaters would capture them. I had no other choice."

"A flat fire is hardly the best message for motivation," said Dumbledore, rubbing his chin, regarding him grimly. "But what were you looking to find there?"

"I thought they'd have something the Death Eaters needed," he explained without hesitation. "You-Know-Who's pensieve. I am aware that it is needed for the potion to work – I am also aware that the Dark Lord does not have it. He will be searching for it, just as he will be searching for Potter and Granger. I was looking for it so I could protect it, but they didn't have it. The whereabouts of the pensieve worries me – it must be in a place of high security, somewhere it will be protected thoroughly."

"You needn't fret about the pensieve," Dumbledore informed him. "It is in a safe place."

This caught Erick's ear. One dark brow crept up his pale forehead, looking curiously at the old man before him. "How do you mean?"

"It is in a safe place," repeated Dumbledore, not saying anymore about its whereabouts. He moved on. "Aurors are Dark wizard catchers. Highly intuitive, but usually are the lonesome types. Most have a reputation of putting everything on the line just to catch their target. How am I to know that you will not use Potter and Granger as bait to catch Voldemort yourself?"

"Is it not our main goal to kill the Dark Lord?"

"Not at the expense of –"

Then Erick began to laugh. "Please do not offer me such idle words. I've read all about you, Albus Dumbledore. You're a risk-taker yourself. Would've made a perfect Auror – and they did, they offered you the highest position, but you declined. You know that you have to use the lure-and-pull method more times than you'd like. And I am well aware of the prophecy. Harry Potter will kill the Dark Lord. Is it not worth the risk?" He was smiling. "After all, it is one or the other. Either Potter will seek him out himself or the Dark Lord will hunt him down."

"I fear you feel too much in this," Albus said aloud.

"It is further incentive, trust me. It can only help."

Dumbledore smiled a small smile. "Mister Bell, I'm afraid my trust is wearing a bit thin these days."

ooooo

"The Auror is on our side," Albus Dumbledore informed both Draco and Hermione, who were currently sitting in the manor's parlor. Hermione was staring down at her cup of tea, still steaming. Any of them had yet to take a sip. "And Miss Granger was correct. He was, in fact, responsible for the ransacking and fire at the flat. His motives were… of good purpose, if not slightly askew. He wanted to get you into hiding, and he was looking for something. He thought you might have something that Voldemort might want."

"And you're certain?"

"I am wary of him," said Dumbledore contemplatively. "I had no other choice. He was very… eager of being an ally. Wanted to be involved. I figured that letting him in would be the best way of keeping an eye on him. If I refused… he might make things worse by doing things his own way."

"And you think you've precluded those chances?" snorted Draco, shaking his head. He looked very annoyed with their former headmaster's decision. He hated bringing in other people – unfamiliar people – into what was their business. "He won't be productive. He's proved that he's willing to go to very extreme measures to get to the Dark Lord – it could be dangerous –"

"But is that not what we need?" interrupted Dumbledore.

Hermione looked up, one brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "What I mean, Miss Granger, is that there are times we must disregard caution and do what our instincts tell us. What I did is what I thought to be of the best benefit of Mister Potter. The Auror could prove to be very valuable."

"Or not," Draco said harshly. "He could be working for the Dark Lord. How are we supposed to know that he is genuine? That he's telling the truth?"

"He has a personal purpose of helping us," he replied quietly. "He wants to avenge his father's death."

"That's dangerous business," Draco argued. "We all know what personal reasons can lead to."

"I comprehend your point, Mister Malfoy, but I had no other choice. He is a very firm man. He has also sworn to keep our business private from the Ministry."

Draco was scowling. "A traitor to his own living. I don't trust him."

"You don't need to," Albus said, and Draco looked him in the eye, catching his tone. "What I need is for you to keep an eye on him. And if anything bizarre happens," he said, casting a glance at Hermione, "I need you to tell me immediately. If he is working for the Dark Lord…"

Hermione was truly bothered by this. "Isn't there a way we could know for sure? I mean, certainly we can't just go on this with If's and Maybe's."

"Yes, torture would be nice," muttered Draco.

Albus sent him a look.

"There are methods," the old man responded. "But we must show him acceptance, and if we pursue those methods, our chances of that narrow. If we do anything to offend him, he may find it further incentive to hinder us. He is a very careful Auror. Clever, as well. I have a feeling he catches on very quickly."

"Yes, but what is the plan?" Hermione asked, diving in, her eyes intent.

Draco rolled his eyes at her.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "We will tell you as soon as we are able to confirm it, Miss Granger. In the time being, I suggest you not trouble yourself with those matters." Hermione frowned, but Dumbledore did not seem to see it. "Mister Bell obviously knows a lot about what is happening," he said, looking at Draco. "He has asked me of the whereabouts of a very important artifact. He is very aware of all the details. I will allow you to meet with him later on in the evening, where you two will get familiar with him as well as others of the Order. I have informed them of their duties. I will not be here. I am going to be visiting a friend, but I will stop by tomorrow morning to see how it went."

He stood up, and by then, their teas were already ice-cold.

"Remember to be cautious. Part of an Auror's job is to pry and manipulate. He will try to get as much information as he can. But do not be hostile," he said, looking square at Draco, who had a sour expression on his face. "Welcome him. Be friendly. Just do not expose what he does not already know."

And with a loud sound echoing throughout the whole manor, he was gone.

The pair was silent for a few moments before Draco finally spoke up.

"Ten Galleons says that this one's going to be a total prick."

Hermione sighed. "He's our age. Pretentious and snobby. Of course he's a prick. He's just like you." And then she got up and left.

OWNED.

ooooo

Albus Dumbledore found himself Apparating to the living room of a dingy house in the outskirts of Muggle London. He was very familiar with this place for he'd had his share of visits as a young lad. He looked around silently, observing the dirty wood floor. There was a dim lampshade coated with dust in the corner, but its power was slowly fading and did not do much for the room's ambiance. The air seemed murky, thick with dust and age, and he only then recalled that he hadn't been here in ten years. Ten years seemed a long time when he observed his surroundings. The place appeared as if it hadn't been tended for exactly a decade. He thought that maybe he'd moved out, but it was then he heard a clattering in the kitchen and a familiar voice. Smiling, Albus made his way towards the noise.

"Robert?" he called out.

The voice stopped. Then there was more clattering, and Dumbledore finally reached the doorway where he found a man his age wearing a crimson sweater vest and scholarly tie, holding a metal pan. He had combed down gray hair and brown eyes that smiled. But this time the man looked so astonished to see him that his eyes had widened to the size of tea saucers.

"Is that you, Albus?" the man said, surprised. "Oh, it is you!" He haphazardly dropped his pan to the floor and walked over to his friend, laughing happily, where they then embraced for a quick second before the man grabbed his shoulders firmly just as they used to greet each other in the old days, taking a good look at his face. "How are you, old friend? It's been so long! I thought you'd kicked the bucket!"

"Ten years," Dumbledore agreed.

"Ten years! A whole decade! You must have had a really busy agenda! Would you like a cup of tea? Biscuits? I'm planning to make a roast this evening if you'd like to stay for dinner. We've got ten years of chatting we've got to do."

"No, no, such is not necessary," Albus said, shaking his head and chuckling. "I just came by to talk a bit. Something very important has come up."

"Oh! Well then, we'll have that talk you want. Please, sit down."

Robert settled down on an armchair facing the settee Dumbledore sat on, the man smiling happily with joy at his friend's arrival. "How have you been, Albus? How is that school you're managing? Run down to ruins, I expect?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Something like that. What about you?"

"I've been… fine," he said, but there was apparent hesitation on his face as he said it. It looked as if he had been trying to swallow down a stone. "I've been trying to practice that, you know. My therapist has been running me through these exercises. But it's still difficult to say."

He looked at him, a sympathetic look on his wrinkled face, his eyes sad beneath his spectacles. "I'm so sorry. How long has it been since… Camilla died?"

"Two years," he said, and he smiled sadly. "Two years seems like a lifetime now, but I've never been one to cope too well with loss. It's just that… she went so quickly, you know? There was no warning. I haven't been able to. . . . Camilla used to clean this place religiously. It was her favorite thing to do in the world. But after she died… I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I apologize for the massive amounts of dust you're inhaling right now. I'm only lucky you haven't any allergies."

"I never did get to tell you how sorry I was that I never made it to her funeral."

"It's all right, mate. You're running a school. I've never held it against you." There was a sad twinkle in his eye as he said this, and his whole face seemed to scrunch down now into agony and misery. Albus felt very terrible for his friend; they'd been best mates since they'd been young, and he'd never known love like Robert and Camilla's love. He considered it a tragedy when two people so in love with each other, even after a lifetime together, were forced to part ways. Death was a cruel thing that way.

"Now what was it that was so urgent?" Robert said, trying to appear chipper. "Retirement plans? Vacation in Oahu?"

"No, not yet," Dumbledore smiled. "But I come to you in a matter of urgency. I have told you once before of the situation, but now things are happening, certain things in which signal the coming of… Voldemort. I am grateful that you have hidden the pensieve in your home all these years, and I would have never entrusted it to anyone else. You are my most beloved friend. But the time has come in which I have need of it."

Robert nodded. "Of course. So the boy… has he…?"

"Not yet, but certain circumstances have been happening. He is rising. I know for certain that he shall be looking for his pensieve, and while you have been the most helpful host, it is time to lift the burden from you."

"It was no burden at all, I assure you," said Robert.

"You are in danger, Robert. I must be quick. I must get the pensieve and leave here right away. He may be looking for it right now, as we speak." Albus stood, a serious look on his face. "We must be quick."

Then a peculiar thing began to happen. Robert began to sweat, his long wiry fingers twiddling nervously on the dusty arms of his chair. He blinked numerous times. "I'm afraid I cannot give it to you, Albus."

Albus Dumbledore felt the very core of his heart tighten, constricted by surrounding cords. He looked at his friend, though kept his face free of astonishment or betrayal. His expression did not change. He felt a great impression of gross and intimate disappointment inside his chest, hoping that their meeting would not end in any tragic way.

"Please give it to me, old friend. This is very important."

Robert stood, breathing hard, his brown eyes looking dilated. He was pale-faced and looked panicked. "Hear me out, Albus. I had a vision a few months ago. He promised me Camilla. He promised that I would be with her forever, that we would be able to live forever together. I am in _pain_, old friend," he emphasized, his face clearly an indication of his tumultuous position. "Two _years_. I know you do not understand the complete agony of lost love, but this I cannot bear. I am willing to do _anything_ to get her back. And he wants it. He wants the pensieve. I have agreed to give it to him. I am sorry. You are my dearest friend. But I cannot give it to you."

"Robert… you know no one can raise the dead. It is an ancient rule. No one has been able to surpass it. It is impossible."

"_No_!" Robert suddenly yelled, the loudness of his voice shocking the still, grim disposition of the house, causing dust to flutter off the windowpanes and hide inside wooden cracks. "It is not impossible! He promised me Camilla, and I will give him what he needs. He is going to _give_ me Camilla."

"Old friend, this cannot—"

"I _saw_ her, Albus. I _saw_ her in the vision. She was talking to me."

"The desperate mind can conjure things that aren't necessarily—"

"Please, old friend," he begged. "Just leave."

"No. You must give it to me. The pensieve. It is not yours. Your mind is clearly poisoned. Voldemort is the vilest being – you do not know his nature. He manipulates people like strings to get what he needs. He will not give you Camilla. He does not harbor the power to raise the dead."

"He is willing to give me what I need," Robert spat heatedly, angry color beginning to fill his cheeks. His mouth was warped into a hateful scowl. "And what have _you_ done? In these two years of desolateness and misery? Nothing! It is only _now_ you visit me – when you need what I have! You offer _nothing_ to me! You did not even _attempt_ to make it to her funeral, did you? She always liked you! Saying how great a man you were, so good a friend – but you dared to show utter _disrespect_ by not even going to her funeral! What kind of man are you, Albus, that in ten whole years you did not even manage to give your most beloved friend a visit? One _single_ visit?"

Dumbledore looked at him in unmistakable sadness. "He has tricked you, old friend."

"I want you to leave. Right now. I am not going to give it to you."

"I am not going to leave without the pensieve."

Robert's wrinkled, fleshy face drew into a menacing look, his eyes glittering darkly. "He warned me this might happen. He told me to be prepared. I told him that you would understand. You would understand. But you don't. You have forced me to drastic measures." He then pulled something out of the pocket on his chair. Dumbledore only saw a blur of it before he found it pointing at his chest, as black as night.

Robert had drawn a gun.

"Leave. Now."

"Are you truly willing to kill a friend for an evil creature skilled in trickery?"

There was a clicking sound.

"I don't want to have to do this, Albus."

"He is going to ruin the world."

"I am giving you one last chance to disappear."

"I cannot let you do this."

Robert's face was as hard as stone. "Then it is done. Goodbye, old friend."

Just then, a bright light filled the room along with a low muttering of words, melting away all of the dust coating the dingy house, bathing the entire house with its striking luminance. It was silent afterwards, completely still, before he heard the heavy thump of the gun falling to the floor. Once the light fled away, Albus Dumbledore found himself standing over the body of his dearest old friend, Robert Milkins, his blue eyes sad behind his half-moon glasses.

"I'm sorry, old friend."

ooooo

Draco was already waiting in the Malfoy parlor and sipping a glass of whiskey before Hermione began to descend the stairs. He'd had five glasses of whiskey already (his mother hated it when he drank more than two glasses – but she wasn't here, was she? Besides, it wasn't as if he was going to go and pull a Hermione Granger) because this whole Auror business had strung up his nerves into one tightly tangled knot. So basically, the liquor was to de-stress. He was thoroughly disturbed that Dumbledore had gone and welcomed the stranger (who was probably a prat, anyway – most Aurors were) with open arms. It seemed to Draco that Dumbledore would welcome anybody with open arms – the old coot was far too trusting. Probably because he was senile.

"About time you came down, Granger. Thought we'd have to start the party without you," he drawled as he heard her finally come at the end of the stairs. "And I know how much you like to party."

"When are they coming?" she asked.

"Soon."

She sighed, settling on the armchair beside him. The tension between them had been buried underneath the disconcertment of dubious Erick Bell, which was sort of a shame, but it was only temporary (sexual tension could not be kept suppressed for long. It was like a volcano. It could be dormant, but that didn't mean it wouldn't erupt sooner or later – take Mount St. Helen, for example). For some reason both felt incredibly weary, perhaps because the pair were especially apprehensive about letting another person into the Order. They were too far along the situation for that. And Erick Bell had scared the bejeezus out of Hermione when he'd summoned her, so there was also that.

"So what are we going to do about this Auror bloke?"

"I try not to think of it. My guess is that it's going to involve lots of hugs and feigned joy, like he's our savior or something," he said sourly. He took another sip. "I don't like Aurors. They've always got something stuck up their arses and this mentality like they're Walking Gods. Plus, they played poker with my father."

"Funny. Sounds like you."

"Shut up, Granger. I'd never be an Auror. If I could I'd lock them all up."

Suddenly, the members of the Order began to appear one by one. Arthur Weasley, who greeted them warmly if not nervously, then Tonks, who sported cherry-red hair, and others who kept asking if Dumbledore was there and whom Draco and Hermione had to inform that no, he would not be coming. They looked rather put off at the fact that they'd have to be staying at the Malfoy Manor for a bit alone with the Malfoys without Albus, which Draco thought was sort of funny. Even as part of the Order they'd never particularly warmed to his family. Or, more specifically, him. They liked his mother just fine ever since she'd started to get friendly; in the beginning she'd realized that she'd had to get along with these people if they were ever going to get on their good side, and so she'd hired a social tutor in helping her to be "nice" and "friendly" and "charming." So it was Bye-bye Narcissa Malfoy, Resident Ice Queen, and Hello Narcissa, Party Hostess.

It was a great deal of rubbish, if you asked him.

"So from what I hear this Auror's a bit fishy," said Arthur Weasley.

"Yes, but you know how old men love fish," Draco said sarcastically.

Arthur Weasley blinked, silent.

"P-pardon?"

"It's the whiskey," explained Hermione. When Arthur had excused himself (rather quickly, too) to go and murmur with the others (who did not creep him out), Hermione attempted to snatch his glass away. Draco held it away from her – his reflexes were obviously something to behold.

"You aren't worthy for my liquor, so go away."

"Malfoy, I don't know why it is that you're acting like this, but you heard Dumbledore. No matter how much you hate the Auror and for what ridiculous, high-maintenance reason, I suggest you get friendly, even if you have to pull it out of your bum."

"There are many things I can pull out of my bum, Granger, and friendly is not one of them," he sneered at her.

Draco was a fairly secretive boy when it came to his issues (though he would never call them issues, because he wasn't crazy and people only called them issues when they were crazy) and was never too keen on sharing why he was how he was, or why he couldn't be nice to people – at all. He wasn't looking forward to Erick Bell at all, because just like everyone else, Draco had a history. A history in which he did certain things that he wasn't particularly too proud of (but had been fun at the time) or exactly stepped him up as a candidate for the Good Samaritan Award. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he were bestowed the gift of being able to cross out some of his past faults and they could be erased completely from the world – how different would he be? Probably still a first-class cad, he reckoned. First-class cad-ness was in his blood – Malfoy blood. Couldn't take that out of the system unless he completely drained his blood vessels, and he'd be dead then, so it'd be no use.

Damn technicalities.

"I don't want you ruining things," hissed Hermione.

"Why not?" he snapped at her. "It's how I contribute to the community."

If he was right, no one could ever forget if they got beat up. Unless they totally got sucker-punched in the head or something, or was beat up so bad they lapsed into a coma. Draco wouldn't know. He hadn't been beat up that bad (and wasn't aiming to) – only had been slapped around and punched.

Yeah, by a girl.

Wench.

Suddenly, people quieted down as a figure strode into the parlor, their whispers vanishing into silence, and both Hermione and Draco turned their heads up to see what was happening. Draco's butler was standing beside a boy their age, with dark brown hair and a thin smile. On his robes he had displayed a few of his badges like he was some hotshot and everybody would actually care about those fake metal entities. It was probably only aluminum foil with the help of magic markers.

"Mister Malfoy, Mister Erick Bell," his butler announced as everybody looked at the Auror, and his aid soon walked away.

The Auror was smiling and Draco felt a tightening in his stomach, instantly scowling at him. He felt a boiling over in his skull. The Order was looking back and forth at the two individuals, sensing the sudden air of intimidation and animosity crackling between the two. Everybody was still and silent, while Hermione watched on with corrugated brows, wondering what on earth was going on – if they were going to duel or something, because that was what it looked like.

"Well, if it isn't Lucius Malfoy's son," Erick Bell said. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd be joining our side." Bell's brows rose. "You don't remember me?" he said, looking a bit surprised. "I was the boy with the large bag of Honeyduke's sweets walking along the alley. It was my baby sister's seventh birthday – a bag of sweets was all we could afford."

He paused, and his eyes took a bit of a bizarre sheen. "You should remember this bit, though. I was walking along the alley with my bag, and suddenly two pairs of plump hands pull me in. I hear laughing and grunting. Somebody takes my sweets away. I open my eyes and I get punched, real hard, on my face. Then again on my stomach – seven times." He began to smile, like it was a happy memory. "I was that boy you and your two friends beat up in Hogsmeade. You stole my baby sister's candy."

Draco was frozen, looking at him.

"That was in second year," Draco said quietly, yet his eyes had contracted into slits.

"Ah, yes," Erick sighed, looking at him. "And look how you haven't changed a speck."

Then he turned around.

"Although, I do hope you don't go around beating up poor little boys for sweets anymore. Seems so dirty for a man of your age now."

Hermione stared after the Auror, looking surprised at their connection – but not really, for she had known Draco had done some pretty vile things at Hogwarts. She felt a little disgusted, honestly, and did not move from her seat as the man began to introduce himself to the other members of the Order (he clearly made them nervous) and Tonks, the only bold one, suspiciously eyed him from across the room. Hermione couldn't understand his technique – coming in here and directly insulting Draco Malfoy? Oh, wait, that was simple enough to understand. She was even convinced Draco deserved it. But from what she could see, both boys equally despised the other, indicating that they shared a certain history.

Funny. She'd thought nobody could hate him as much as she did.

Apparently she was wrong.

Soon, everybody was preoccupied with talking to the Auror except Hermione and Draco. She caught the smirk he sent Draco through the crowd.

"I suppose it's true what they say. Old sins really do come back to haunt you."

Draco scoffed, still glaring at the Auror. "And what about you?"

"They already have."

He stiffened before he looked at her, sneering. "How subtle, Granger, I must applaud you. You truly are the connoisseur of words."

She shook her head, smiling. "You deserved it. I suggest you try and hide your hostile past behind you. If he's as clever as Dumbledore makes him out to be, he'll only use it against you." And then she stood up and Draco watched her as she made her way to Erick Bell, Resident Auror, A.K.A. Major Pain in the Arse. He continued to drink his whiskey, noticing the looks the other members of the Order seemed to be shooting him. Great. Erick Bell was halfway there already. Now everyone was going to think he was even more of a monster than he actually was.

"Bastard," Draco muttered.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Post-A/N:** Know what would make me really happy? **Reviews**. And, right now, orange jello – but reviewing is fine.


	12. Half Brothers and Bandages

If it was you

**A/N: **So! Late night escapade to the kitchens, injuries, and what the heck is SPROUT? Plus, Harry comes back. And totally a Dramione moment-filled chapter, can I get a Wahoo? Dedicated to all of my readers and reviewers who make it a point to bug me for more Dramione parts. This is for you. So that means you have to stop asking for at least one chapter, da?

**Half-Brothers and Bandages**

The members of the Order stayed for a few hours, although most had their own agendas to tend to, so the manor had pretty much cleared out in an hour or two. Some had managed to hang around, like Arthur Weasley, who was asking Granger if she was all right, and with Granger answering with questions that involved his son. Apparently she had forgotten how much the other one-third of the Trio was going to want to massacre them once he found out that they were leaving him out – and for good reason, Draco thought. If he had been in his position (God forbid, the thought alone was frightening. In the shoes of a _Weasley_? It gave him shudders he couldn't shake off) he'd have been angry as well. He thought that Weasley actually had a thing with Granger in the past… and now she was spending all of her time with Potter? He reckoned they weren't too fond of sharing.

Especially Potter.

Realizing that conversation was pretty bleak, Draco left his whiskey glass and headed out to the larger veranda. He noticed from the corner of his eye as the Auror sipped his tea one more time before silently getting up and following after him. Part of Draco wanted to turn quickly around once they were alone and stick his wand up his right nostril and hurl a hex right then. But Draco then discovered that there was no hurry; he could wait a few minutes. In a few seconds they would go out into the veranda and once Draco had succeeded in knocking him out, he would dump his body off of the balcony.

Draco remained silent as he stepped outside, relishing the chilly evening air. He'd always liked nights better than days – perhaps because of the sense of the finality of the day and all the mystery surrounding it. Pretty sappy, but at least he wasn't one of those happy-go-lucky, Oh, Yay, Sunshine! freaks that he, quite honestly, was scared to death of. Sunshine? Yeah, good luck with that melanoma, jerk. Plus, he had sensitive skin. Sunburned easily. Never got tan, though. He was born without that ability. All of those albino jokes weren't funny, either.

"Something bothering you, Malfoy?" he heard a familiar voice call out from behind him, before the figure of gangly Erick Bell appeared beside him on the balcony. "Apologies if you thought my entrance was a bit dramatic. I was just telling a story. That image of you and your friends beating me up has always managed to stay with me, I thought I'd just share the fun."

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked in a low tone. "What do you want?"

"I want to help Potter defeat the Dark Lord. Of course, imagine my surprise when I find out that my half-brother and his mum were the ones hosting my welcome party. Made me feel all warm inside," he said, smirking at him. "Don't tell me you forgot. Blood never forgets."

"Just because your mother was a whore doesn't mean you're my brother," Draco snarled.

Erick pinched his face in thought. "I don't know if you recall, but your father loved whores. After all, your father killed my father. I reckon poker's more of a serious game for them. I mean, my father did want to kill your father for getting my mum pregnant – that was the job he'd been so eager to do, so my mum said."

Draco was silent.

"Your mum's nice, though. She's a lot different than I remember. She used to be… icier. Like you. But you've softened up as well. I can tell. After all, joining the Good side? Practically keeled over from shock. You never touched me as the type. Last I remember, your father was grooming you to follow in his footsteps. Mudblood killing. Death Eater tea parties. Then, the next thing I know, you've completely turned the other way and you're looking at Hermione Granger with googly eyes? No way, I said to myself. This can't be true at all."

"Are you high?" Draco passionately asked him, looking very annoyed.

Erick Bell ignored his question, regarding him a lot more seriously. His eyes were dark. "I've known a lot of two-faced people, Malfoy. I'm an Auror. I can tell when people are hiding something. With some people it's a little trickier, but I find out sooner or later. And you're hiding something. You're not very good at it, either. You should know that."

"I'm not hiding anything," he coldly informed him. "So you can lay off, bastard." (Funny, because the word's true meaning actually applied here.)

He laughed – a great, big, obnoxious laugh. "I see you've inherited your lying skills from your father. Genuine act, really. But I suggest you tell someone before they found out and use it against you. People nowadays aren't too keen on forgiveness. Especially if you're aiming for that Granger girl. When they find you out, they're going to give you hell."

"And what do you know?" Draco said viciously, turning his face towards him. "Traipsing in here at the last minute, throwing your high and mighty Auror reputation around? You don't know about _anything_ I've been through. And, for your information, somebody does know." He looked away. "There are things called sacrifices. I don't know if you've heard, but most of the time, they're required in shit like this." Draco then turned around and began to walk away, back into the manor.

Erick Bell called out to him, his voice haughty and knowing, stabbing Draco right in the middle of his back, right on his spine.

"And which is the sacrifice?"

He froze, his back still turned to him.

"If you get in my way," Draco said lowly, not turning around, "I won't hesitate to kill you. _Brother_," he spat hatefully, before walking away.

ooooo

_"I will spare you and your mother of your treachery… if you do something for me in return. Bear in mind that this is not to be taken lightly. I have killed many for their betrayal without a single thought of sympathy in my mind. Do you know how easy it is to kill you right now, at this very spot? But I see great potential in you, Draco Malfoy. Potential that surpasses even your weakling father's. You have yet to play a part in my victory. So you may walk away now, but I know you will return. This world is a traitor to you. You will return. And you will aid in my victory."_

Draco awoke with a start.

He was panting, gasping for breath, covered in cold sweat. He was sitting upright, his spine rigid, tangled in his sheets as he turned his head to look at his clock. It was fifteen minutes past two in the morning. He then looked around his room, finally composing himself. It was completely dark.

He rose from his bed, reaching for the shirt he'd thrown on his chair. Then he headed towards the bathroom where he washed his face repeatedly with cold water until his entire face was numb. Then he turned the knob, and the descent of water stopped. He swallowed hard, looking at his pale reflection in the mirror, his silver eyes reminiscent of nothing but hatred bottled up inside another man.

On contrary to popular belief, he rarely looked into mirrors. He wasn't into that – observing who you were physically. Besides, these days it was easy to get caught up in things so much more different than that. Stepping out of Hogwarts, being surrounded with different people – it had an affect on him. Made him grow up, a little. And lately it'd gotten hard to take more than a few seconds to look at himself. Lately, he'd realized with growing turmoil that he was outwardly shaping into someone else, someone he knew.

His father.

And that would have been fine. Everybody had been telling him since he was a boy that while he got his mother's haunting features, he would mature, and he'd start looking like his old man. As a kid that was all he ever wanted. As a kid you look up to people just because you're a kid; you're small, you don't know any better, you think things are great even though they aren't. His father used to be a good man, but Draco didn't even remember that anymore. Even when he was small he envied his father's cruelty, his power over people. His ability to make people cower before him. He'd thought it was terrific. Sure, the long hair in the ponytail thing wasn't a high point, but the point was that his father had been something _great_ to him. Something that signified power, and importance. He'd impacted his life _so much_. Who didn't want that? To have somebody following you around, wanting to be like you?

But his father made his family go through so much _shit_. His father had been greedy and malicious. His father had been the slave of a disfigured bastard. His father had gotten too hungry, too fast. And that was ultimately what pierced Draco, right in the only tender spot in his chest. Lucius Malfoy hadn't even known who he was after a year of servitude. He was just a minion of this-this ugly _thing_. And he could never envy someone who lost himself, who gave himself away to a creature. Never. Not when he'd seen what it did to wives and children. Not when he'd seen it with his own eyes.

So lately, that's what he'd been fighting. But how could you throw away something that had swallowed up your childhood? You couldn't. _He_ couldn't. A part of him still had his father whispering in his ear, and it was damned _hard_. Sometimes he thought he was going crazy. He was still racist; Granger couldn't see that. And he didn't want her to, but sometimes he did, because he was convinced their little fling was over – because he couldn't _face_ her like this. Sure, he was all for pretending but sometimes he felt like it was too much. Sometimes he wanted to be cruel to her so she could just finally go away, leave his life forever, because he was convinced he was always going to have his father's voice inside his head, telling him that being good would never work out for him. And that was the damndest thing about your past. Couldn't escape it. To hell with what anybody said, about leaving it behind and starting new. It was always going to be there, that stabbing pain on your shoulder, or that shadow lurking in the background.

He always wondered that if the Dark Lord was defeated – would it go away? Maybe that was why it was still haunting him. Because there was still a chance he could give in and walk away, go back to the Mudblood Killers. Join the party.

Then again, Draco had always hated parties.

He put on his shirt and quietly left his room, heading for the kitchens. He already knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep for a while, and sitting alone in his room had always done remarkably close to nothing for him. In the times he felt troubled and restless, the next best thing to being alone (when it wasn't working out) was hanging with the house-elves. They were sad, funny creatures and they had food. Draco liked food.

So he made his way down the staircase and crossed the parlor and the dining room. The house was so vast that it probably took him ten minutes to reach the kitchens, but once he finally did, all he had to do was reach over to the porcelain clock sitting on the table, turn it upside down, twist the knob three times counter-clockwise, and the wall began to shift, revealing a doorway. Immediately, as Draco stepped down the small steps, he could hear the bustling activity of the house-elves. When his feet finally settled on the stone ground, he looked around, feeling significantly giant amongst the tiny creatures – they were less than half of his total height. They looked him, blinking from their stations, before their bulging big eyes registered his presence in their kitchens.

"Master Draco!" they all squealed, some of their voices cracking. They instantly stopped what they were doing and swarmed over to him, grabbing his wrists with their bony, knobby fingers. "What is it that master wants? Master Draco wants a snack? Does Master Draco want a cake?"

Draco was too distracted, however, to pay attention to the house-elves. Instead he was looking at the lone figure sitting at one of the long tables, dough in her hands, looking particularly peeved at him.

"Granger?" he said, surprised, although he told himself that he shouldn't have been. "What are you doing here? How'd you even—"

"Your mother," she said, pressing her lip tightly against the other. "She told me how to get in. I'm here because I thought the house-elves could use a little friendly company and help."

"Yes, and what a help she's been," snorted one of the house-elves, the only elf still sitting down at the table, chopping vegetables. Draco recognized this one; it was his favorite house-elf, although he'd had a fair amount of times he'd wanted to kick him in the head. It was Rocher.

"Master shouldn't listen to Rocher!" said Peaches. "Mistress Hermione has been very nice!"

"She's been bothering us for the past three nights!" shouted Rocher, waving his knife around, the blade glinting in the light. The other elves drew back, gasping. "Talking about SPROUT and liberation and how big your head is!"

"It's S.P.E.W.!" Hermione yelled back, looking particularly infuriated with the elf. "And you should know about your own rights! Nobody deserves to be kept locked up in a kitchen and doing chores!"

"Well, Granger," Draco said, more amused than he was annoyed with her – he should have known she was going to pull a stunt like this. She _was_ barmy. "They're free to go any time they want to."

"Oh, no! No, master!" they said.

"All right then, the verdict's been decided. I keep my house-elves. Too bad, Granger. The public has voiced their interests. And this is what we call a democracy." He looked down at the house-elves. "Go back to work."

They all nodded, agreeing with him, before their tiny bodies scurried back to their stations, making food, polishing things they'd retrieved from the basements. Draco looked back up to a scowling Hermione Granger, before she cast her eyes away from him, kneading her dough with a determined expression on her face. He started towards her, sighing.

"Granger, you shouldn't meddle with other people's households."

"This isn't a household. This is a prison," she grumbled.

"But it's nice to see that I'm appreciated nonetheless. What is that? Biscuits for me? How touching."

"Not for you," she snipped. "For Harry. When he comes back, and that's three days from now. Dumbledore owled me."

Draco rolled his eyes. "What are you? His wife?" He sat down beside her, glaring at the tiny cookies she was making. Blech. "Never mind, I take that back. You're horrible at this baking stuff. Those don't even _look_ like biscuits. They look like… _horse_ _droppings_."

"They're biscuits," she said firmly. "And they may not be perfect, but they're made with love."

"Love?" he snorted. "Is that another word for Unwashed Hands?"

"Shut up, will you? And go away. I don't even know why you're here in the first place."

"You're one to talk. This is my kitchen, and I couldn't sleep. What's your excuse?"

"I couldn't sleep either."

"Wench."

"Prick."

"I don't want you burning my manor down, Granger."

"Why not? I'd be doing you a massive favor." She kneaded her dough vigorously. "I don't even know why anybody would want to live here. It's cold all the time, and it's lonely. You can't slide down the rails. You can't do anything or else you'll break one of the many musty antiques you've got. This is the house of a seventy-year-old widower, or a Yeti, not an eighteen-year-old boy and his mum."

"I happen to like the manor," Draco said, his brows furrowed with bother. "This is an extremely elegant place. You're just intimidated because this is nothing like your Muggle home. You're just jealous."

Hermione snorted. "Oh yes, what a shame. In the future I'll be sure to marry a rich man with a gi-normous house with no heater and fill it with pointless, valuable bedpans. That'll make my life absolutely complete."

Draco stared at her in scrutiny. Suddenly caught off guard with the silence, she glanced at him, feeling nervous at the way he was looking at her. She began to knead the dough faster, slamming it against the board.

"I saw you and the Auror head out to the balcony. You two have a history, don't you? Your stare down was more than an indication. Everybody's curious about why you two seem to hate each other so much. I mean, I can see it from his side, because you're a git, and you – you just don't get along with anybody. But still. What aren't you telling us?"

"It's none of your business, Granger," he icily told her.

"It is so if you're going to make things that much harder for the Order by throwing punches and picking fights with the new recruit." She was looking at him with an intent expression, her hair pulled back messily by a little clip. Little wisps of her brown curls hung down beside her dainty ears and one particular strand hovered right in front of her face, wiggling and dancing with every exertion of force she put on the dough.

"I don't trust him," Draco said simply.

"You don't trust anybody."

"This is different," he said, his voice taking a more hostile tone. "You don't know Bell."

She scoffed. "And you do?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. He's my half-brother."

Hermione froze. She looked up at him with a disbelieving expression. "What? Are you lying to me? Because lying to me now would be completely pointless and would result in nothing but my elbow in your ribs."

"I find no sane reason to lie to you about that, Muggle," Draco said, giving her a look that wasn't exactly propelling her into a fit of joyful jumping. "He's my half-brother. His father was an Auror. I told you before, I knew a lot of Aurors. His father played poker with my father. My father slept with his wife, got her pregnant. His father got angry, wanted to kill him, and my father killed him instead." He told this story impassively. "Happy now? He's my half-brother. What do you need? Sodding blood test results?"

"I just… it's hard to believe," she said, looking at Draco. "No wonder he's such a prick."

"That isn't funny."

"It wasn't meant to be." Granger released her hands from the dough, rubbing her chalky palms together. "How come you never told me? What about the others? The Order doesn't know, do they? What about Dumbledore?"

"Nobody knows," he answered. "I completely forgot about him before he appeared on the paper. And I'm not going to tell anyone because it isn't their business."

"Then why'd you tell me?"

"Because I have a feeling he's going to try to turn you against me," Draco told her lowly, looking her straight in the eye. "I'm warning you to stay away from him."

She stared at him, her hands pressed together in front of her. There was a smudge of dough on her cheek, and the way she looked at him then, in deep contemplation, almost made him want to kiss her. There was something particularly sweet about her; the way her hair was fixed (even though he knew that she had terrible hair) and the way her eyes were steady on his. This was a rare moment. A moment where he actually thought they could get along, that they could be friends. That he didn't want to kick the shit out of her for being so snarky.

"On one condition," she then said.

Uh – moment gone.

Draco sighed, exasperated. "What? What do you want, Granger? A pony?"

"Close. An explanation. About that man in the cell. Your grandfather."

"Pity. For a second there I almost thought you were going to ask if you could kiss me again." But then he saw the look she was giving him, so he relented. Dirty minx and her equally dirty manipulative ways. "He isn't well. He tried to kill my mother a few times. Supports the Dark Lord – practically his number one fan," he mumbled. "We couldn't send him to Azkaban because my mother doesn't want him to be locked up there. He's basically a loon. He also tried to kill you, so that's another thing. Don't get soft on him, Granger. He isn't what you think he is."

She was quiet for a few moments. "Okay," she then said softly. "I'll stay away from him." Then she looked down at her neatly rolled dough, taking the string and beginning to cut it carefully into equal pieces. She looked thoughtful. "You know, I honestly don't understand why you've got to keep all these secrets to yourself."

"They wouldn't be secrets if I _didn't_ keep them to myself," he quipped.

She gave him a dry look. "Don't get smart. All I'm saying is, if you're part of the Order now, you ought to let them know about these things. I know you're heinously touchy about what is their business and what's not, but it doesn't particularly help if you're so detached from them. People aren't comfortable around people who shoot insults all the time and don't engage in friendly conversation."

"Well, thank you. I'll keep that in mind the next time I run for Miss Universe."

Draco watched her as she kept cutting the pieces and shook her head at him, annoyed. "You're useless. Here I am, trying to help you tie your social behavior together, and there you are, being a total git. Tell me, Malfoy, do you _plan_ on writing a book specializing in How to Make Everybody in the World Want to Shoot You?"

"Well, it depends, Granger. What are they going to be shooting me with? Besides, I don't need your help, all right? I'm perfectly fine. I hate people. Why would I want people hanging 'round me twenty-four/seven and actually _liking_ me when I don't even like them _back_? Now that's just a waste of human effort. Do you know what could _benefit_ from that wasted human effort? Your hair." Draco's hand flew out, snatching the astray curl hovering right in between their faces as they talked, before letting it go, watching it spring back into its natural state. "It's poofy and frizzy. Only fifty-year-old mad scientists have that sort of hair."

She then gave him the look of death, rubbing her hands again, finished with setting all of the cookies on the tray. "And that is _exactly_ why I'm making cookies for Harry, and not for you," she spat angrily. Then she picked up her tray and began heading towards the massive shiny oven.

Draco blinked. "Granger—"

"Shut up, Malfoy!"

She'd grabbed the handle of the oven and pulled it open, before she clumsily tried to put in the tray – with her _bare_ hands – wincing as the heat hit her. Not very clever, squinting your eyes closed, when your hand is still inside the oven.

And, just as Draco expected, he heard a loud sizzling noise and suddenly a very loud, shrill shout that made every one of the twenty-four house-elves in the room jump about three feet into the air, dropping their utensils. Draco heard a few vases breaking against the hard floor. The next thing he knew, Granger was on the floor crouched over, her fluffy, chaotic hair the only thing he could see from where he was standing. She was yelling out a surprising selection of derogative words – that, when put together like the way she did, made no sense at all but was actually _really_ funny – and sounding like she was in an immense ordeal of pain. As soon as he'd heard the loud sizzle, Draco had leapt out of his seat and made his way quickly over to her, getting down on his knees beside the oven.

He could make out her slightly heaving shoulders as he grabbed her wrist, which she was now cradling. "Let me see," he told her, when she resisted.

"Hell no," she bit out, though she winced. "Go away."

"You basketcase, it could get infected and then we'll have to amputate your entire arm off. You want to be known as three-limbed Granger? _Well_? _Do_ _you_?"

Finally, she begrudgingly let him draw it out and Draco looked at the wound. It was a pretty horrific sight. The Malfoy ovens were always on, even when they weren't cooking, and so that meant you could instantly fry a person alive in there within seconds. Her wrist and a part of her palm had been completely burned off, and now he could only see the raw, pink, bloody flesh underneath it. It was _really_ nasty, gross at its grossest, and almost made Draco want to throw up after looking at it for a few seconds. And then he looked at her, her face, and he could see the small tears in her eyes and the white bone of her front teeth clamped down on her lower lip.

She didn't look so threatening then. She looked quite vulnerable, in fact.

Almost vulnerable enough to kiss.

Draco shook that away very quickly.

"Get up," he told her. "I've got a first aid kit here somewhere. Although I've never had to use it, because nobody as dumb as you has ever stepped near the ovens. Ever heard of oven mitts, Granger?"

"I would have _remembered_ if you hadn't made me so _angry_," she gritted out forcefully.

A few minutes later, Draco and Hermione were sitting back at the table with a small white box beside them, Hermione facing Draco with her arm held out. He was applying ointment to her hand and she repeatedly kept stomping on his foot from the burning that he "accidentally" squeezed the tube a lot harder than was required and the pungent green liquid flowed rather abundantly. Which, consequently, caused Granger to howl loudly in agony.

"You did that on _purpose_!" she screeched, her face red.

"No, I didn't. _You_ kept stomping on my foot, and _hence_, my grip tightened."

She continued to whimper in pain.

"House-elves never had these kinds of problems," he muttered, as he took out the bandages and prepared to bandage her hand. He then heard a rustling from underneath him, a tapping on the side of his shoe, as if she was checking it was there, and then a blinding pain on his toe.

"Shit!" he yelled, his body jerking violently. "What the _hell_ is your problem? In case you haven't noticed, I am _trying_ to help you, you _loon_!"

"Well, maybe I don't need your help!"

"What? Did the oven burn part of your brain as well?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Malfoy? My forgiveness? Because you don't need to be here. I've got Harry. I'm fine."

Draco got the hint that they weren't talking about bandages anymore. Then, once he registered her point, and the look on her face, he felt his blood boil. Always Harry. _Harry, Harry, Harry_. _Why_ couldn't she talk about something else? Like bunnies. Draco had _no_ problem with bunnies. But no, she just had to go and say things like: "I'm fine, I've got Harry." So _what_? It didn't matter to _him_! Not like he asked in the first place! Just because he was helping her didn't mean that he was trying to woo her or anything like that. Merlin, she was so _stuck-up_.

Serves her right to get her skin burned off.

Bint.

He scowled at her. "Well," he said, grabbing the bandages again. "Potter isn't here, is he? And I don't know what you're insinuating, Granger, but I don't like it. Potter may love you, but you don't love him back. I know that."

She stiffened, as Draco began to wrap her hand up. She snatched her hand away. "Who told you that?" she said, looking shocked and appalled.

"Nobody. Nobody had to," he answered coldly.

"But you're _wrong_," she said, her brows drawing down in determination. "_Grossly_, _massively_ wrong. Harry doesn't – not in that way – he's _just_ my friend—"

"Everyone already knows the truth, don't tell me you're so daft to go and try to avoid it. Open your eyes! He's in love with you. Has been. For _ages_. Even _I_ saw it, which only means that you – _clearly_ – have _got_ to get your eyes checked. Look at it this way, Granger: there's a reason why you're involved in all of this, and why Weasley isn't. The old coot can throw around things like 'You are close to him' and all that rubbish, but you didn't believe that either, did you? They think you're Harry Potter's true love. Voldemort needs you. That's why they're making you hide. That's why you were summoned, that's why you're _important_."

She looked angry, her jaw clenched. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to. But you will, soon enough."

"But how can they know? That-that I'm Harry's true love? _I_ don't even—"

"They don't know," Draco told her, feeling a slight crick in his neck. "But you're the best they've got."

She looked at him seriously. "And what about you? Do you think that, too?"

Draco hesitated, something strong binding around his chest. "No."

Hermione blinked, looking at him. Part of her expression faltered. "And why not?"

"Easy. I don't believe in true love."

Granger looked down, looking perturbed with this new piece of information. Draco knew that Dumbledore was not going to let him off easy for accidentally blurting this stuff out to her, but she had to know what she was getting into. It wasn't as if he was letting her know anything else. Didn't she deserve to know? Sure, she was a major pain ninety percent of the time, but she was a person, too. She should at least know the truth about why some shriveled-up ugly creature wanted her captured.

She had a sad expression on her face, yet thoroughly confused, as if she wasn't prepared to digest any of this yet. Somehow, the thought of it… disappointed her. It felt strange to consider Harry that way. _Wrong_, even. But it made sense, for some reason. "Yeah, but… what if – what if I am?"

Draco snorted loudly. "You're not." Then he grabbed her hand, continuing to bandage her wrist. "And – don't stomp on my foot again or I'll fetch the gasoline and burn your whole arm off. Don't think I won't. I think you made my toe bleed."

Meanwhile, they hadn't noticed that the house-elves in the kitchen had gone completely silent and had been watching them all this time. Nearly two dozen big, bulging eyes were staring at them and had, for once, completely forgotten about their work.

ooooo

Severus Snape stopped by the next day, just around the time classes ended at Hogwarts. He Apparated to the manor's parlor (the main Apparating place, really, as to not barge in on anybody naked or anything) before making his way to the secret room, where Draco was already waiting for him. He was sitting on the chair, facing the prison cell, but his feet were up on the table where there were several potions brewing. The multicolored liquids inside their beakers were bubbling and smoking, providing an odd stench in the air. Draco was also watching his imprisoned grandfather, leaning against the stone wall, his chin to his chest, snoring loudly.

Suddenly, there was a loud _smack!_ as Snape's hand made brutal contact with the back of Draco's unsuspecting head, which resulted in Draco yelling out in pain, his feet immediately dropping from the edge of the table.

"What? No 'Good afternoon, Draco, how has it been watching these dull potions and getting bored out of your wits; I'm very glad you accepted this helpful duty'?" he said angrily, gingerly rubbing the back of his head.

"_Never_ put your feet on the table," Snape drawled instead, giving him a withering look. He tended to the potions, heading over to the cabinet where he stowed his supplies. "We cannot have you mess this up. This is important."

"Oh, I'm sorry, when you told me through owl that it was important _six times_ in a _row_ it didn't occur to me that you actually _meant_ it."

Severus looked at him. "Has the girl really started to pollute your brain again? You're starting to dumb down. Your tongue's gotten even more reckless – that is a clear sign that your hormones have not yet lost their taste for Miss Granger." He shook his head. "I told the headmaster that it wouldn't be a good idea to have her living here with you. Now you're infected."

"Infected? You make it sound like it's some kind of a disease."

Snape steadily looked at him. "Love _is_ a disease, Draco."

Right. He should have seen that one coming. He'd walked right into it.

He snorted, crossing his arms against his chest. "If I remember clearly, you said that it _was_ a good idea for her to stay here."

"It was called a front, Mister Malfoy. And I thought you were mature enough to have a girl staying over. Apparently not." He began to mix the potions into a cauldron, Draco hearing the peculiar hissing noises it made when the fluids blended. "Now, Mister Potter will be back here soon. I have received news about the Dark Lord's plans – it is not much, barely anything, but it should help. I was given the duty of looking through Dumbledore's office for his pensieve – the Dark Lord's pensieve. If you recall, it is very important in making the potion. So that is confirmation of the Absolution potion."

"Did you find it? The pensieve?"

"No, I didn't," he replied. "He doesn't have it. Not at the school, anyway. Dumbledore has always kept those things hidden even from me, but he often entrusts those valuables to his closest friends. Unfortunately, I do not know any of his closest friends. I have a feeling the Dark Lord knew this. He just wanted to make certain." He brought out the jar of lacewing flies, taking out a little scoop and scattering them inside the cauldron.

Draco was silent for a moment. "He said he was going to spare my mother."

Snape froze, his limbs taut, as his sallow face turned to his old student. He looked concerned, but his expression hardened. "He spares no one. Do remember that." He closed the jar of lacewing flies, wiping the scoop with a rag, before starting to stir the potion clockwise exactly eleven times. "The Dark Lord is powerful, but that is only because people allow him to be. Don't let him get into your head. Once you let him in, there's no getting him out."

He took the constituents back to the cabinet, enforcing it as Draco heard the click of the lock. He walked back to Draco, his dark robes like a looming shadow in his vision. "I do insist you be careful where your thoughts lead," he told him lowly, looking down at him through his massive hooked nose. "Now, if I may, I must speak with Miss Granger. The headmaster has told me to prepare her. Just in case."

"Prepare her?" Draco said, looking up.

"Defense," the Potions master replied, before he walked out of the doorway, leaving Draco all alone. He sat there for a second, trying to register what it was the older man had said, before shooting up and running after his former professor.

He caught up to him in the corridor, ignoring the remarks of the paintings.

"What do you mean? You're going to train her?"

"Yes, Mister Malfoy. Train her."

"But I thought we agreed she wasn't going to be a part of this."

"Don't fool yourself, Draco. Miss Granger is already as far in this as anyone could be. She is a target. And although our plan will prohibit her from actually coming near the Dark Lord, she needs to be prepared to protect herself."

Draco clenched his jaw.

Damn. The man had a point.

"I suggest you not get attached to her. We don't want to have to go through last year again," he drawled, giving him a dry look. "I heard about the broken nose. She's not going to forgive you this time. You shouldn't underestimate her."

ooooo

And so, as it was the order of Albus Dumbledore, it had to be done. The brave and hideously sickly-looking Severus Snape took on the challenge of training Hermione Granger – even though it wasn't a challenge because she didn't get the hang of the spells easily, but because she learned so quickly and proved to be quite a match for their old professor. Draco wasn't allowed to watch because Snape told him he would only distract her, which Draco thought was stupid (but true, because of his blindingly gorgeous good looks) so he was forced to stay up in his room and read, or something.

On the third day, however, Snape told Draco that he would be the one dueling Granger.

"I'm sorry?" Draco said, after blinking. "I thought I just heard you ask me to completely throttle Granger with my superb dueling skills."

"Don't act so stuck-up, Draco. I need to test her skills. And I'm worn out. Besides, I'd like to see how you match up to her."

Draco was scandalized. "_What_? How _I_ match up to _her_? You must be out of your mind! I would completely _destroy_ her!"

And so that was how Draco Malfoy was now standing before Hermione Granger, both wands drawn, looking at each other quite seriously.

She smirked at him. "I hope you enjoy getting beat by a girl, Malfoy."

Draco laughed. "I'm ready for you this time, Granger. I am going to _crush_ you."

"Liar. I am going to _whip_ you."

"We'll just see about that, won't we, kitten?"

"Shut up, children," Snape barked. "When I say to start, you start. I don't want any maiming, or –"

"_Subverto_!" Draco suddenly shouted, and Granger dodged it – but just barely. Instead it hit the wall, boisterously shattering the painting behind her and leaving a gutted, gaping hole. The gold-framed painting that subsequently crashed down to the floor from the hit was now sobbing uncontrollably.

Snape was furious. "_What_ in the _hell_—"

"_Saxificus_!" she shouted, completely ignoring Snape. A tumbling ball of blue light raced towards Draco before he counterattacked.

"_Obsidio_!" he yelled, and a translucent sheen covered him, glowing as her spell hit it, and quickly rebounded towards Granger, who ducked down just in time, hearing it slam into the wall behind her. It did manage to singe a few strands of her hair, though.

She didn't spare a single breath as she soon sent another spell hurtling his way, aiming at his knees as she was still crouched down on the floor. Draco jumped up and threw another, a white jet ejecting out of the tip of his wand, hitting Granger in the arm, causing her to yell out in pain, her entire sleeve getting eaten away, her arm suddenly coated with blood.

"Ready to call it a day, Beaver?" Draco taunted.

"_Aculeus_ _adflicto_!" she screamed out in response, sparks shooting out, whizzing past him, yet as he tried to run to the other side, she sent more, and it hit him right in the stomach, knocking him down to the floor, not being able to breathe. His wand toppled from his hand. The sparks had gone into his mouth, blocking the passageway to his lungs, and he was now wheezing for air.

Hermione stood at the other side, her hands on her hips, one bloody and the other one not, smiling with victory.

"What about you, Malfoy? Ready to call it a day?"

"Granger!" he gasped, his body heaving. "I can't breathe!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby," she told him. "You aren't going to trick me, you know. Just get up."

Draco did not respond. After a few moments, he stopped wheezing. Suddenly, the room was very quiet. He simply lay there, and Snape looked at him with furrowed brows, wondering if his student really was playing a trick on her or was… well, dead. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Malfoy, Get up. This isn't funny."

Nothing.

"Malfoy."

Again, nothing. He didn't even twitch. She watched him closely as she began to near him, very slowly, looking for any sign that he was playing with her. She kicked his leg once as she was standing above him, looking down at his face. His eyes were closed. She couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. Realizing this, she felt the sudden pinch of worry inside her chest.

"Draco, I swear," she said loudly, slightly leaning over him, "if you're only doing this to fool me, you are going to endure a _lifetime_ of pain—"

Just then, faster than her mind could comprehend, his eyes opened and he flashed an evil smirk at her. Then, he sat up and grabbed her wrist, and all in the span of a lightning speed half-second, pulled her down with such force that the breath was completely knocked out of her lungs. There was yelling in the background, though it was a voice neither Draco's or Hermione's, and in a mind-boggling flurry of grunts and fast, blurry motion and sound, Draco had managed to pin her down beneath him, his body steadfastly positioned on top of hers. Hermione stared up at him with wide eyes, in shock of what had just happened, – she couldn't even _remember_ it clearly because it had happened so fast – her heart completely and painfully frozen in her chest as his face hovered just inches from hers, his hot, ragged breaths grazing her face.

She felt an unmistakable pull at her stomach, tangled in what seemed like her worst fear, her ribcage lurching underneath her skin. She didn't know if she'd somehow lapsed into a coma, or was currently concussed, but she couldn't _do_ anything. She couldn't even _think_ of anything to do. She felt so higgledy-piggledy and so discombobulated that she had no choice but to stare at him, hearing the blood pounding in her ears and the erratic rise and fall of her body beneath him. She felt as if her face was on fire – not only that, but the rest of her body as well. She was so hot, she was _sweating_.

Even Severus Snape was so dumbfounded he couldn't speak.

This was a _very_ peculiar, terrible position to be in. She could feel her nerves wrestling within her, the shooting pain in her arms where his fingers were gripping her tightly, restraining her to the floor. They just looked at each other, neither of them blinking or saying anything. His face was so near to hers that she could make out every single dark fleck inside his grey eyes and count every blond eyelash. She couldn't even breathe right with the way his hair was brushing against the very top of her forehead, and the way the heaving solidity of his body fit right against the soft contour of hers. She thought she'd somehow been thrown into a state of paralysis or something, because she couldn't even get her fingers to twitch.

That moment could simply be summed up into nearly suicidal heartbeats, ragged breaths, and heat. She could feel a certain clenching somewhere in her body, so lost in something she could not even begin to fathom in the last remaining bits of her sanity. Yes, this was a _humiliating_ physical arrest, so embarrassing that she was not even convinced she would be able to live it down. But there was just something about it that caused her breaths to hitch in the middle of her throat and her lower abdomen begin to burn with what seemed like an internal fever.

Suddenly, and ever so slowly at the same time, his face began to near hers. She was so frightened to death, and now her heart was hammering so fiercely that she was convinced it would send itself into cardiac arrest, but somehow in some mad way, her eyes fluttered closed, and before she knew it, his lips were pressed up against her mouth, the heat of their bodies quickly fogging over their skulls. They didn't notice a slight breeze passing them by, or even when two figures suddenly appeared in the middle of the parlor floor, with Severus Snape as white as a ghost, staring at his former student currently making out with another one of his former students. On the floor.

Then, there was a loud noise, like somebody clearing their throat.

That was when Hermione's body shot up, her brain finally kicking into gear, sitting up so fast that their mouths disconnected and Draco toppled off of her, landing in front of her on his bum. She was instantly more horrified than she had ever been in her life, the rosy color rapidly draining from her face, as she stared at the two people standing several feet from them.

"Oh-oh my _God_," Hermione managed to choke out.

Remus Lupin smiled at her. "Nice to see you again, Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy. Though I would like to inquire, what in the world happened to this place?" he said, looking around, appearing as if he hadn't seen Draco on top of Hermione and the fact that they had been kissing – at all. "Looks like a tornado hit it."

"We were – dueling," blinked Draco, just as shocked as Hermione.

"Oh, well, that would explain it. It's rather nice to be back. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go and have a nice cup of tea. Would anyone like to join me?" he said cheerily, before he began to walk past them, towards the dining area.

"Yes – tea. That's a good idea," said Severus Snape, sending the pair on the floor a withering glare that only Draco was able to see, before he followed after him.

Harry was looking at Hermione, though he did not look particularly angry. He looked calm, and he looked the same as ever before, but something told Hermione that this was all just a front. Very bad to be caught pinned underneath Draco Malfoy and making out with him.

_Very_ bad.

"H-Harry," she said, weakly. "Welcome back."

"What happened to your arm?" he asked her.

Hermione blinked, confused. Then she looked down at her arm, spotting the bloody mess he was talking about. Her head was still spinning around in spirals. "Oh. My arm. I-I fell down the stairs." She didn't know why she said that – why she lied to Harry to his face, when she could have just as easily said the truth. The truth wasn't scandalous or anything, after all – dueling was dueling. Nothing romantic about dueling.

Unless, of course, one had been tricked into such a position just as she'd been, a few minutes ago.

"Oh. Be careful, all right? Now, come on, let's have some tea. We're going to have to visit Ron later. I'm quite sure he's only going to snub us, but we've got to try."

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded, as he offered her a hand. He didn't even spare one look at Draco – he acted as if he wasn't even there, which annoyed Draco even more than when Potter actually acknowledged him with those contemptuous glowers of his.

After blinking a few more times than was actually necessary, Hermione finally accepted his hand, and he helped her up.

"Right. Tea. I can do that," she said, still flustered and wobbly on her feet.

Then they began to walk towards the dining area, but not before Potter turned his head and shot Draco a look that probably could have burned off the flesh of his face if this reality would have allowed it.

Draco scowled back at him, getting up, feeling a little sore. He looked around for his wand, snatching it up and inspecting it for any damage. Thankfully (or else he would have throttled Granger), there was none. He said aloud a spell and soon the broken portrait was pieced together, and the shattered tables and vases and other completely destroyed furniture looked brand new again, without even the slightest burn mark. And, with the portrait loudly sniffling, Draco tucked his wand back into his pocket, ascending the stairs, with his mind set on a very cold shower.

--------------------------------------------------------

**Post-A/N:** Another quick update! Boy, I am like a racehorse. Unfortunately, this ongoing streak has to be yet again interrupted by the menace of school starting, so this is going to be the last update for a while. (Sad face) I know, I know. But **review** all you'd like, my peeps, I'd like to hear all of your fangirly thoughts about that kiss on the floor.


	13. Honesty is a Problem

If it was you

**A/N:** Apologies, apologies. I know this took waaaaay long to produce. This was kind of a hard chapter to write, too. I had it almost finished a month ago, but then I reread it and decided some scenes had to go. But thanks to my readers who have been bugging me for updates on my LJ, and on my site, and wherever, for not ever letting me forget about it. Major thanks also to my beta, who's just cool, period. She's kind of slutty, but whatever. :-)

Enjoy!

**Honesty is a Problem**

Harry Potter's tea was getting cold.

Hermione stared at her reflection inside the teacup, no longer steaming for it'd been left untouched long enough for the heat to vanish and the fluid to reach room temperature. The dark liquid mirrored her pale face, although her expression was one that she was not very familiar with – nor one that she could necessarily read. She could feel him firmly but gently begin to wrap her arm up with some bandages, his calloused hands rough against her bare skin. They'd lapsed into silence a few minutes ago, because the pain had been almost unbearable on her arm – she'd been completely skinned, and that ointment Harry lathered on was not soothing at all. He'd read the label out loud for her on the tube because she'd insisted (and she couldn't stand stingy medicines – Draco Malfoy's bloody toe was a testimony to that) and it'd included words like "gentle" and "soothing" and "fast-acting." Obviously – _quite_ _obviously –_ it lied.

"Must have been one brutal fall," he finally said aloud.

Hermione glanced away from his untouched teacup.

"What?"

"The stairs. You told me you fell, remember? I say, Malfoy's stairs must have had teeth or something to get you scratched up this badly."

"Oh," said Hermione, realizing what he'd meant. "Right. I didn't really fall, Harry. I… Malfoy and I were dueling."

He looked up at her, pressing his lips together in what looked like a mild smile – but not really. "Yeah. That's what I figured. The place was a wreck. What'd he do this time?"

Hermione blinked. "Oh, we were just… practicing. Snape taught me a few spells to prepare myself, and Malfoy was the dummy."

Harry paused, looking up at her for a second. But his expression didn't get any cheerier. "Good." Then he ducked his head back down again.

"Yeah," sighed Hermione, feeling a bit uneasy around Harry now. Had Draco been telling the truth? Did Harry really have feelings for her? "But how was it? The training, on the island? Lupin wasn't too… hard on you, was he?" she asked, before hissing rather loudly, Harry accidentally pulling too hard on the bandages, grazing her raw skin.

"Sorry," he said timidly, before he began to roll it along more slowly. "The training was good. I learned a lot. It was rigorous sometimes, and I got the breath knocked out of me more times than I can recall, but it's for the final battle. That's all I can ask for. But one night, Remus and I were talking… and I got to thinking about Ron. How angry he must be with me right now for not telling him anything. I realized I needed to talk to him and tell him what was going on, the truth."

Hermione nodded, watching him as he reached around for the scissors, cutting off the bandage and fastening it on her arm. But she noticed a knot in her throat now, especially when the topic of Ron came up, because that brought up what Draco had said to her the night before. About how there was a reason – an entirely different reason altogether – why she was involved and why Ron was not. Because Voldemort wasn't looking for Ron. Voldemort was looking for her and Harry. He was looking for her because they all thought she was Harry's true love. And that brought up the same rough question that she found too hard to swallow down: What if she was? And what did that mean, exactly? What did it mean to be somebody's true love?

"I'll go with you," Hermione quietly said, her mind still crowded with thoughts of Harry and True Love. She exhaled loudly, wishing she could shake them out, but alas, it was yet another time Draco Malfoy had managed to sabotage her brain with unsettling thoughts. Now she couldn't help but feel that squirming inside her stomach, unnerving her. "I mean… for support. And I reckon – I reckon I should tell him now, too."

"Tell him what?" asked Harry, looking at her curiously, putting away the rest of the bandages and the tube of ointment.

Hermione cleared her throat. "About… what happened with Malfoy. I'm ready. Of course, I don't think he's going to believe me, but it's worth a try. Think of it as Telling Ron the Truth Day. And if he starts throwing things, or makes as if he's going to strangle us, we should make a plan to Apparate out of there as quickly as we can."

Harry laughed, but there was something odd with his face when he did – it was almost as if he'd almost forced it out of him, and Hermione pressed her lips together, feeling a metallic pinging in her chest that seemed to ricochet all around the room. She carefully lifted her arm up from the table, cradling it against her chest, studying the meticulous job Harry had done with the wrapping.

"We could always just duel him," he offered.

"Yes, and give him another reason to begrudge us for the rest of our lives. Very clever idea, Harry."

"Right, so let's just stick to the talking part."

Hermione nodded, getting up while Harry watched her with an intent look in his eyes. She looked at him, and immediately – as if she hadn't sensed it before – there was something different about him. She couldn't tell if it was something off-color, because it was the vaguest of feelings she had ever felt; it was like looking through something that had gotten manipulated in a way, knowing that things weren't supposed to look like how you were seeing them right now. And she could feel a lump in her throat as she stood there, unmoving, and seconds fleeted by when they didn't say anything at all. She wondered if he was thinking the same about her – if she had changed, too, in a way. She didn't know if she had – you couldn't really monitor those things because if you did, you wouldn't _ever_ change. But she sort of wished she could see what he saw when he looked at her right then. That if perhaps the fact that she'd somehow softened towards Draco Malfoy showed in the way her eyes flickered, or the way her lips moved, or the peak of her nose.

It wasn't the best feeling, but it was like a blatant shudder. You just felt it, and you accepted it.

"Everything okay, Harry?" she asked quietly.

He smiled, but Hermione saw that it wasn't really a smile. "You just look a bit different, that's all."

"Maybe it's because we haven't seen each other in so long," Hermione said.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"I've got to go get ready, you know, for Ron. I'll be down in twenty minutes. You should take a nap or something."

He rubbed his face with his hands, looking weary. "Yeah, good idea, Hermione. I'll see you in a bit."

She nodded, before she exited the dining area, feeling the lurch at the bottom of her stomach. Then, suddenly, she began to quicken her pace, taking the stairs two steps at a time, a determined look pressing itself on her face. Once she reached the top, she did not head towards her room but entered the other corridor where she remembered Draco's room was. She passed many doors – many of which were locked – as little torches lit up in front of her, enhancing the rich color of the walls. Her shadow, dark and blurry, walked with her two steps behind before she finally spotted one familiar door. She rapidly approached it, an unmistakable burning inside her throat, as her fist rapped against the hardwood loudly, three times. She waited, hearing a rustling inside the room, then footsteps.

The door then opened, revealing a damp Draco Malfoy, fresh from the shower. He looked surprised to see her, but then his expression morphed into something much more familiar: annoyance.

"Granger," he said.

"I need to talk to you," she said, very forcefully.

"What? Are you Potter's hired assassin now?" he said, his eyes narrowing. "Never knew you went around being Hero Boy's bitch to do his dirty work for him."

"No," she told him, through clenched teeth. "Just let me in."

Finally, with a very skeptical look, he widened the space for her and she slipped in, before he quietly closed the door behind her.

ooooo

A portkey was supposed to take them to where Ron and his family were currently staying, but Remus had told them that flooing there was fine, since it was unlikely Voldemort would be going around searching the entire Floo network for Harry and Hermione (though he did look a bit nervous when he'd said that). And so that was how Harry and Hermione found themselves standing inside the Malfoy's main fireplace, massive enough to fit both Harry and Hermione without either of them finding it necessary to duck. They both had Floo powder in their hands, Hermione catching a whiff of its pungent scent, making a face. Remus was smiling at them from the parlor, looking happy, wishing them luck.

"Be careful, and don't stay around there for too long," he told them.

"Sure thing, Remus," Harry said from behind her, his arm pressing rather firmly against hers even though they had plenty of space in the hearth. Hermione only shook off the niggling shivers as suddenly, before they were about to throw down their Floo powder and exclaim their destination, Draco Malfoy came around, standing a few feet behind Professor Lupin, a rigid look on his chiseled face.

Hermione quickly looked away, pressing her lips together, and her body subconsciously separated itself from Harry a mere inch. In an asthmatic flurry of thick dust, green flames, and her and Harry's voices echoing in the hollow fireplace, she felt herself being sucked up, and the last thing she saw was a flash of ash-blond hair.

They didn't land very gracefully, or very comfortably. Harry was the first one who landed in one particularly cinched fireplace, letting out a pained grunt as he hit his head on a brick and rolled out of the hearth, stopping once his head stopped spinning (although it still sort of was), feeling his skin graze against carpet, also getting a bit of a rug burn. Then came Hermione, who'd luckily managed to subconsciously steer herself away from said brick, rolling out very quickly, and only stopping as she hit Harry, who made another pitiful sound of pain. They both lied there for a moment, their eyes squinted closed and their foreheads crinkled, rubbing their heads, feeling the soreness of their joints and elbows. She could feel Harry's warm body next to her, and somehow her foot had gotten entangled with his, and she tried to get it out to the best of her ability considering the fact that it seemed her brain was still sloshing around in her skull.

"_What_ on _earth_ – oh, _Merlin's_ _beard_!" she heard a familiar voice say, getting shrill in tone, as suddenly there were rushed footsteps approaching them. She then felt a strong grip on her arm, and somebody pulling her up, Hermione complying with the physical order. She opened her eyes and found Mrs. Weasley ducking her ginger head down, trying to help Harry up. Hermione, once realizing that she was still alive, bent down to help Harry as well.

"Harry, Hermione, what are you two doing here?" she said in a panicked tone, as Harry brushed himself off. Hermione sneezed, wincing. It was a painful sneeze. "Does Remus know you're here? And when did you get back, Harry? Oh, if you two have started to run around by yourselves again—"

"Mrs. Weasley," clarified Hermione, "Professor Lupin knows we're here. He told us where you were staying. We need to talk to Ron."

Molly Weasley blinked, her mouth agape. Then she closed it, looking at them, wringing her hands on her apron. "Oh, I don't think that's such a good idea… maybe, maybe you can come back some other time? I fear my Ronald has been a bit—"

"A bit what, Mum?" said Ron, as he walked into where they were. He saw them, paled a little, before brandishing a – honestly – deserved scowl. "What are _they_ doing here?" he asked, as if he couldn't ask them himself.

"Ron," Harry said steadily, his palms facing outwards as if to immediately mediate, "look, I know you're angry with us, but—"

"Ding ding!" Ron suddenly yelled in a very surprising way, his scowling face flushing a passionate red. "Correct answer, _knobhead_! We'll be sending your check through the post, but for the time being, why don't you step into our booth and answer a few of our survey questions – or, better yet, go away!" And then he stomped out of the room, Mrs. Weasley shaking her head and tsk-ing about her son, while Harry and Hermione rushed after him. They tailed him as he ran up a flight of stairs, Harry quickening his pace and getting in front of Hermione.

"Ron, please, just listen to us," Hermione said.

"No! I don't want to listen to you! At all!" he yelled down at them.

"You're being a prick—"

They were all level with each other now as Hermione hopped off of the last stair, Ron whirling around and taking three steps back towards them, each one just as threatening as the other. She'd forgotten how tall Ron was compared to the rest of them, and he seemed a lot more menacing now, with his broad chest coming closer and closer to her, and she almost felt as if it was going to swallow her whole. Her eyes flickered from his woolen homemade jumper, the bold R on his chest to his enraged crimson face and sneering mouth.

"_I'm_ being a prick?" he shuddered. "You two are certainly ones to talk," he hissed. "I can't _believe_ you. Showing up here only after everything's happened, not even _bothering_ to contact me for the past months, _ignoring_ my living existence on this bloody world –"

"Ron, we couldn't tell you. Dumbledore said that—"

"_Screw_ what Dumbledore said!" he shouted, causing Hermione to slightly flinch and her ears to ring. "When have you lot _ever_ listened to a word Dumbledore said? Why start now? Why the _hell_ would you start _now_?"

"Because you're going to be _killed_!" Harry shouted, his voice making Ron's sound immensely puny, Hermione looking at him with surprise. His face was grimly sketched with frustration and anger, his eyes dark beneath his spectacles.

Ron's eyes narrowed at him. "That's nothing different, Harry. There was that same risk time and time again before. It's not any different."

"It is different," snapped Harry. "It's different because I'm not letting you help with this one. You're not involved."

"Oh yeah? And what about Hermione? Why's she involved?"

"Because she is," Harry said lowly.

"And what makes her different from me?"

"Ron," Hermione cut in, her voice sharp, uncomfortable with where this was leading. Her fist clenched beside her. "Don't."

"No," Ron said, his voice forced and aggressive, his piercing blue eyes flickering from Hermione to Harry, "I want to know. I want to know why she's involved and why I'm not. Why you can't just push her aside just like you did me. Why _she_ just has to be by your side when _I'm_ here, being ignored." His tone was venomous. "So why is it, Harry? Why is she more important to you than I am?"

Harry was quiet, his jaw clenched, giving Ron one of the most hateful looks she'd ever seen. Hermione was starting to feel a bit scared to be witnessing this – to be caught right in the middle of it – and found her fingers encircling Harry's arm, giving a slight tug. She was too uneasy with this confrontation. This wasn't what they needed at all.

"Harry, come on. It's not worth it," Hermione said quietly.

"Shut up, Hermione," Ron lashed.

"Don't talk to her that way," Harry spat.

"If you're in love with her, mate, just say so. Stop being such a coward, Harry," Ron said heatedly, through his teeth. "I bet you were never going to tell her, were you? You were just going to keep pining after her, and you're just going to keep hoping that once you defeat You-Know-Who, it'll impress her, and you won't be afraid of getting your heart broken. Well, guess _what_, Harry? I _know_. I _know_. _She's_ in danger because you're in love with her. _She's_ in danger because she _is_ more important to you."

Just then, before even Hermione could register what she was doing, she'd taken a step forward and her hand flew out, hitting Ron's cheek with a sharp, blistering sound, his face snapping to the side. She couldn't even pretend to be stunned at what she'd done, even though she hadn't ever expected to do it. She didn't know why, but her vision was a little blurry. Tiny tears had started to well up in her eyes. Her palm stung, like it had been set on fire, and she knew Ron's cheek felt the same way – if not worse. She could feel the tightness of her throat, like it was slowly shrinking, and her breaths had become ragged and short, her body heaving with each exhale and inhale.

"_Ron_," she hissed, "_shut up_. We came to talk to you and explain everything that's happening. And if you don't want to listen, then fine. Just tell us, and we'll leave. If you're willing to risk our friendship over something as stupid as this, then that's your call, not ours."

The silence, she felt, was something tangible now. Something you could touch, and feel, and taste. Something that you could grab and make something out of. She could physically feel all of their emotions crackling in the atmosphere, radiating from one person to another, preparing to swallow each of them whole. Ron had always had a temper – they'd known that. And Hermione had been the victim of many of the hurtful things he said when he was angry, but this time it just wasn't fair. Not to Harry. Harry didn't deserve it. Now, Ron was just being spiteful and mean. And Hermione had seen a lot of tempers to know that that was where you drew the line. That was when it wasn't excusable anymore.

Ron unclenched his jaw, his blue eyes flickering. "Okay," he finally said, quietly. "Okay. We'll talk."

ooooo

And so they told Ron everything that had happened. They were all sitting on the floor of his temporary room in their temporary home – although "home" wasn't the greatest thing to call it – when Harry finally opened his mouth to explain. But it wasn't an explanation, really – more like a retelling. He wasn't explaining anything. He wasn't explaining why he'd purposely left Ron out (although to Hermione it should have been so glaringly obvious) or why he'd waited so long before coming over. But as she sat there, listening to Harry, a bit more distanced from both her best mates, staring at the ground, she felt a little sick. Nauseous. He started at when Malfoy came by the flat, and then said what had happened at the meeting, and then about the flat burning and the Auror and the potion, and she _felt_ like she was going to throw up.

She could feel Ron casting her glances, and she knew that he hadn't a doubt in his mind that he thought Harry had told her this way before, but she really wanted to tell him that he was wrong for thinking that at all. Because they'd kept things from her, too. Draco hadn't told her about the potion and what Voldemort needed, and it made her feel so monstrously _bad_ to know that if she were captured, she would aid in Harry's defeat. So that's why they had been keeping her so locked up. Realizing that, she felt guilty for getting angry with Dumbledore and the Order. Even a bit stupid for thinking they'd be so cheap towards her.

Harry finished a few minutes later after explaining what had happened with his training. He didn't mention anything about Hermione's problems with Malfoy, which she was relieved for, but then realized that thinking it was important enough for Harry to mention in such a crucial story-telling moment like this was pretentious.

Ron was silent, and so was Hermione. She wasn't looking up at any of them.

"So that's everything, huh?"

Harry sighed. But this time, his sigh wasn't weary or sad. It was one full of release. "Yeah. That's everything."

"So why couldn't you have just told me this before?"

"I thought… I thought you'd want to come. And I didn't want that. Both you and Hermione have risked your lives for me every single year we've known each other… I wanted it to be different." But then he trailed off, and he looked just as sad and troubled as before. Hermione knew it was because it had to do with her and pressed her lips together, frowning.

Ron swallowed hard, wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers. "I would have backed off."

Harry then scoffed, smiling, shaking his head. "No, you wouldn't have."

"Yeah," insisted Ron, "I would. If you'd just told me so, I would've."

He gave him a dry look. "Believe me, Ron, I've analyzed the hypothetical situation a great many times. You would _not_ have backed off."

Ron's blue eyes were serious. "You've just got to have more faith in people, Harry." Then he sighed, looking away. "But you're right. I wouldn't have. Good call."

Harry laughed weakly.

"Your forehead's bleeding, by the way."

Harry's hand flew up to his head. "What?"

"You're bleeding. Right there," Ron said, raising his finger to point a location on Harry's head. Hermione finally looked up and saw a nasty cut right above Harry's temple.

Harry touched it and winced, bringing his hand down, looking at the smudge of blood on his fingers. "Must've been from that brick. Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I was angry with you," Ron explained, a bit ashamedly. "And when I'm angry with people I don't tell them that they're bleeding straight away." He paused, then looking at Hermione. "I'm not going to apologize for getting angry. I'm entitled to that. But I am sorry for… what I said," he said, a little timidly towards the end. He looked ashamed. "That was… mean. I shouldn't have said it, and I'm sorry." He gestured to them. "So, I'm sorry, Harry and Hermione."

"Are you all right with all this?" asked Hermione, though she had to admit she was still feeling a little angry with Ron for bringing it all out there. Now they _had_ to talk about it, and she just felt like she wasn't ready. It was such a cowardly thing; she didn't even comprehend why she was so scared out of her wits about confronting Harry. Maybe because she just didn't want to let him down. She didn't want to push him away – especially after what had happened with Malfoy. It was so selfish for her to think that way, but she just couldn't help it. After all, if Harry were to thrust that awkward conversation upon them, he would be in the same spot she'd been just a few hours ago. The one asking for the truth. And she – she would be playing Malfoy's part, and God, that just made her as sad and angry as hell. She didn't want to hurt Harry. She really didn't want to do that to him.

"I have to be, don't I?" Ron said. "It isn't as if I can do anything about it. It's all set. You've got absolutely no room for me. I mean, sure, it would have been great to be involved. But I'm not. So now all I can do is sit here and root for you guys. And – when things are looking hopeless – pray." But then his face crumpled down a bit after he'd ended his sentence, as if he wasn't convinced with what he'd said himself. He sighed. "What are you going to do?"

"Dumbledore's got a plan."

"Are you sure? Because Dumbledore could be in his office right now, thinking the same thing about you. You've got to be _certain_ about these things. And…" he glanced up at Hermione. "Hermione…"

"What?"

"You've got something to say to me, haven't you? I can see it on your face. You look a little green, as well, which I don't know if that's just – you know, part of whatever you're doing."

Now she could feel both pairs of eyes watching her closely as she took a deep breath and prepared whatever stupidity she was going to say about Malfoy. But then she hesitated. Because why did she have to say anything about him in the first place? It was over. _Over_. It had been over for a very long time – and why did Ron need to know the gruesome details of their sordid affair, anyhow? It wasn't as if he'd care. It didn't concern him at all. And, honestly? This was not the time or place for this. This was not confession. This was not a little girl's slumber party. This was not intoxicated therapy at the bar counter. This was _not_ the ideal time to tell him _anything_ about the situation between her and Malfoy.

But at the same time, thinking about it, feeling that hot mess inside of her skull, she felt a settling feeling of acceptance inside her gut. She liked this feeling because she remembered how long it had taken for her to achieve this sort of mental state before; the shock had stayed for too long. But now, after letting her old pains swallow her up for a minute – just for a minute, nothing less and nothing more –, she fought back, and now she could look up at Harry and Ron and tell them very calmly that No, she didn't have anything to say to them and she just felt a little tired from her dueling practice this morning.

She didn't even flinch when Harry merely stared at her with this strange look on his face that was half wonder and half something else she couldn't calculate, or when Ron asked her if she was sure.

"I'm sure," she said, not looking away from Harry, giving him a firm look. "It was nothing. I… I just hate Flooing, you know that. Makes me dizzy."

"Yeah," Harry finally said, a few long seconds later, but gave her one last serious lingering look before his green eyes flickered away and landed on Ron beside them. "Yeah, it's nothing. Malfoy's just been sort of bugging us."

"Do you really trust him?" Ron straight out said, casting a worried glance towards Hermione as well. "I mean, he's shady, don't you think? Let's not even get into the fact that he was a complete bastard and Death Eater-wannabe back at Hogwarts. I won't even get into that. But it's just… from what you told me, it seems like there's got to be more than what you know. Like he's hiding something." He leaned back. "I mean, hell, I don't like him and I don't trust him. At all. How does a rotten rodent like him gain favor from Dumbledore? I thought Dumbledore was a lot smarter than that. _Malfoy_?" he spat disgustedly. "I say he's two-faced."

Both Harry and Hermione were silent.

"We don't trust him, either," Harry finally said, quietly.

"Good!" Ron said with passion. "Keep on your toes. You never know if he's crossing the borders and trading information."

Then, suddenly, Hermione spoke up with a little frustration evident in her voice. Her voice was muffled because her face was in her hands, but both Harry and Ron heard her, clearly.

"You don't _know_ him."

They looked at her, stunned, blinking.

Then Ron leaned forward and poked her scalp with a somber look on his face. "Oy, what did you just say?"

"I _said_," Hermione repeated, lifting her face from her pink palms and revealing her scowling expression to him, "you don't _know_ him."

Ron scoffed. "And you do? As far as I can tell, nobody in this room knows anything about Malfoy than anybody else in this room. What? Were you in a secret relationship with him or something?"

Harry stiffened, his eyes zipping to Hermione. "Ron—"

"I'm only saying," she said, slowly, "it isn't right. Maybe we should give him the benefit of a doubt."

Ron laughed, very loudly. "A benefit of a doubt! Listen to you! You're on a roll today!"

Hermione pursed her lips, looking away with narrowed eyes. "Never mind."

"No, seriously, Hermione. Let's take a moment and think about what you said. Okay, let's give him the benefit of a doubt. Let's let him run around and not ask any questions. Let's entrust to him valuable information. Oops! Bad little Drakey knocks both you and Harry out with some spell or-or the broken leg of a chair and sends both of you to You-Know-Who!" He was shouting now. "_Yes_, by all means, let's _all_ give him the benefit of a doubt!"

Hermione began to wonder why she'd said that at all – what possible _demon_ had possessed her to verbally announce such a frivolous thought aloud. She saw how angry Ron got at the mention of it and how bothered Harry was because she'd brought it up. She felt stupidly ashamed for sticking up for their bully of seven years and more – even more ashamed for _making out_ with him in front of Snape, Lupin, and Harry. God, was she on a roll today or what? She just kept opening her mouth and letting _stupid_ stuff _happen_.

"Hermione," Ron said again, his eyes and tone pleading at her, "_please_ tell me you aren't _serious_."

"No," she said. "I'm not." She realized she could have easily told him the truth, but there was no way she could have dug through all of the soggy details and rubble for proof she could articulate. Because when it came down to it, there was no proof somebody had changed, or could. There was always going to be that voice in the back of everybody's head that said how easily people could lie and act to make you see things that aren't actually real. And, how was she going to start defending some prick when she wasn't even convinced herself? Did she believe Draco had changed? No. _Could_ he change? She wasn't sure. She didn't like to think about it anymore. _Thinking_ that somebody could change was different from them actually changing. _Thinking_ they could wasn't going to _help_ them change if they didn't want to. And sometimes that was the biggest mistake people made. _She_ wasn't immune to it – she'd fallen right into that trap as well.

They were quiet. The other two occupants looked at her with ambiguous yet deeply concerned looks on their faces. Hermione then suddenly felt warm and slight pressure on her shoulder, and looked to her side to see that it was Ron's hand. He was giving her a sincere but solemn look.

"You know, Hermione… I worry about you. A lot. I mean, I know it's got to be difficult to be caught in the middle of everything. But you can't start trusting rat-bastards that you _know_ can't be trusted. War messes with your mind. I know. But you've got to be _strong_. Whatever that prat's doing to you right now, whatever manipulative words he's forcing down your throat… _throw it up_." Then he slammed his hand down on her shoulder, making Hermione wince. "Don't be gullible, Hermione. Just don't."

Then she shook her head. "But maybe I just have fa—"

He gasped, looking very scandalized, before immediately cutting her off. It was like the loud buzzer sound on a show like Jeopardy!, and she would have winced, a little, if she'd seen it coming.

"You were _not_ just about to say the f-word in relevance to Malfoy. You were _not_. Are you _out_ of your effing _mind_, Hermione?" he asked her, his eyes squinty. "_Faith_ and-and _Malfoy_? It _sounds_ like a Sunday sermon, but then the M-word is brought up, and there goes that out the window!" His ginger brows furrowed at her. "What did they _do_ to you over there?" He looked at Harry. "You guys torture her over there, Harry? Deprive her of food? Water? Experiment on her, or something?"

Harry shrugged, but he was looking at Hermione with a weird expression on his face. "No, man. We didn't do anything to her."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "I think I need some water."

"Yeah," Ron said, getting up. "I think you do. I'll give you the whole damn pitcher. Anything to make you start making sense again."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts, a certain Potions professor particularly fond of donning black menacing cloaks stood in the center of Albus Dumbledore's office.

Albus was having his evening tea when Severus Snape strode into his office, looking particularly grim about something – more so than he normally was, for it was self-evident to Albus that Snape's expression of malcontent hardly ever changed, which added something somewhat of a quirky quality to the man. He simply took a slow slip before acknowledging his presence.

"Severus," he announced, setting the cup back down on its saucer. "You look troubled by something. Perhaps a lemon drop would make it better?" he suggested, motioning to the bowl of candies he had on his desk.

"Hardly, Albus," said Severus Snape with his shriveled lip. He had his hands positioned behind him. He seemed unnervingly calm. "I've come to discuss something that I think is fairly urgent."

"Oh?" said Dumbledore. "And what that might be?"

"The young Malfoy."

"Ah," he sighed. "Mister Malfoy. Seems the young boy just can't seem to please anyone, can he? I'd ask both you and Miss Granger to allow him a break, but I fear that would be stepping out of place." He paused, getting back to the topic. "What are your concerns, Professor?"

"I think my concerns are very obvious, Headmaster. I am worried by his relationship with Miss Granger."

Albus stared at him for a second, saying nothing. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh. His laughs were never boisterous, for he was an old man now, but when he did express his joy his eyes twinkled and his face complied easily with the humor. He laughed for a short moment, irking the man standing in front of him, who was annoyed at not being taken seriously – but stayed quiet until Albus had contained himself.

He wiped a tear from his eye, dabbing his handkerchief under his spectacles. "Oh, the hilarity you always bring when you step into my office, Severus."

"It is a serious matter," he insisted, a bit angry. "You know all about his past situation with her. I am suggesting that we move Miss Granger from the manor to someplace else where he would not be so distracted –"

"Don't be silly," Dumbledore said. "You remember how it is to be their age." He smiled. "However, I did hear about the surprising welcome Remus had at the Manor. Highly entertaining, if I may say so myself."

His face hardened. "His attachment to her is interfering, Headmaster," Snape spat. "It must go. It must go if he intends to save her."

"I'm afraid I disagree, Severus," said Dumbledore knowingly, in his usual raspy voice. "I believe his attachment to her will save her, and will end up saving him as well."

He paused, looking at him.

"There is still hope, Severus. Mister Malfoy is different. Much different. He isn't the narrow-minded boy he once was." He smiled a small smile. "And you can thank Miss Granger for that."

Snape scoffed. "Mister Malfoy is still just a boy."

"Not quite," said Dumbledore, sipping his tea again. "You underestimate him, Professor. You really should allow him more credit than that."

Snape was gravely quiet for a few moments, and the quiet, mechanical ticking of the planetary clock he had in his office rang as Pluto, represented by a tiny emerald ball, aligned with Jupiter. He spoke up again after the soft droning of the clock died out.

"I have been getting troubling dreams, Headmaster. This cannot be good. Something is going on with Draco, and I know that he is destined to play a part in all this."

"Why, Severus, he already has."

"I mean differently, Headmaster," he said hastily, a dark look in his eye. "There is something that is yet to happen, and it will concern him." He pressed his scowling lips together. "One cannot just erase the Dark Lord's presence. I was hoping Mister Malfoy wouldn't have to go through that, but I fear he is. And I fear that he will crumble."

Dumbledore set down the teacup gently. He was looking seriously at the man in front of him. "You've got to have more faith in the boy, Severus."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Harry and Hermione returned to the Manor, everything was surprisingly quiet. They'd surprised Narcissa, who'd been having tea with Tonks, and made a mess of her expensive Persian rug by rolling out and pressing ash and powdered coal into the fibers. Hermione had apologized profusely and cleaned it up with her wand, but felt the bottom of her stomach drop when she'd seen Mrs. Malfoy – only because of her uncanny resemblance to her son. She remembered that they'd ended terms on a sore note before she'd left with Harry (but was that even surprising anymore? It seemed that they could not get anything right, not even now, one entire year later).

They greeted Tonks, who was back to sporting spiked purple hair.

"Remus told me you went to visit Ron. How'd it go?" she asked them, grinning. "He blew up at you, didn't he?"

"More or less," Harry replied. "But we're on good terms now."

Tonks smiled. "Excellent, then. Well done."

"I think the pair of you should best get cleaned up," said Narcissa, regally as always. "It's late, and you still haven't had your supper. I had the house-elves keep your meals on warm."

And so Harry and Hermione headed up the stairs to take a quick shower to get all of the ash off of their bodies. Hermione noticed with a sour taste in her mouth that she and Harry were on awkward terms now, to the point where they had nothing to say to each other. She didn't know if he was angry with her for what she'd blurted in front of Ron, or even the fact that she hadn't the guts to confess what she'd planned to – but she didn't have the heart to ask. Instead she just hesitated in front of her door, her hand to the knob, and turned her head and silently watched him as he walked further on down the corridor, heading towards his room. Then, before he reached his room, she opened her door and walked inside.

After scrubbing herself clean from all of the soot, Hermione couldn't help but think about how Draco would laugh at her if he'd known what she'd done today. Not only about the kissing, but also about the foolish recklessness her tongue had acquired when she'd been talking to Harry and Ron. Frivolously, she thought if it had been one of the horrible consequences of snogging Draco, as if his impulsiveness had rubbed off on her when their mouths had touched.

She also remembered a thought she'd almost vocally announced – and only realized just now how grateful she was to Ron that he'd stopped her before she could finish.

Faith.

Was it really just a waste of a word when it came to people like Draco Malfoy? People who played with you and tried their hardest to make you hate them – to preclude any and every chance of redemption, and possible forgiveness? And just what stupid-as-hell reason did they have for pushing everybody away? Was it pride? Or was it something worse – fear?

Hermione sighed, looking down at the object she held in between her fingers. The silver felt cool against her skin, as if it hadn't been touched for such a long time. And it hadn't been, really. She'd buried it underneath everything she could find just to prevent any future accidental glimpsing of it. But who would've thought that when she'd gone back with Draco to their ruined flat she'd find it out of all that rubble? That she would just look down and see the snakes winking at her, just like the times in seventh year when the light would bounce off of it in a way that it seemed like it was endlessly hinting something to her?

She continued to look at the ring, and the snakes seemed to coil around tighter from the dark shade of her hair. Completely undamaged, just like he'd promised a year ago.

She looked up, feeling an uncomfortable clenching in her stomach. Straight across from her was the fire, glowing, licking the inner walls of the hearth. She glimpsed down at the ring, before she slowly got up, walking towards the fireplace.

She was right against the fire, feeling the close heat nearly burn the skin of her legs, and watched as her fingers let go, and the ring descended into the fire.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night, a figure snuck out of the Malfoy Manor, hurrying into the dark with a cloak that hid him from any wandering eyes. The lawn was quiet, and the gates noiselessly opened as Draco Malfoy crept out of his family's property, his eyes almost unrecognizably black underneath the moonless night.

"_You are afraid to turn out like your father, boy. But it is inevitable. His blood runs through your veins. And blood never forgets." _

**Please review!**

* * *

**Post-A/N**: So! I know some of you have been asking me about the ring, and what happened to it – well, there, I just answered your question. AND – as for Pluto not being a planet anymore, I don't care. It still is back in the wizarding world. Don't trip.

So… Draco's shady? Whatever happened in that room when he let Hermione in? And is Snape really some kind of future-telling weirdo overdramatic psychic? Questions, questions, questions. Oh, and for the peeps that hate me for the way I depict Harry and Ron: Sorry. This fic just does not love them. I wrote another fic to compensate for the anti-love, though. So it's all good, yeah? Yeah.


	14. The Prodigal Son

If it was you

**A/N**: This chapter, things get _muy_ complicated! Sorry x 84,635,143,087,998,857 for obnoxiously long wait. I know you folks have been waiting around for an update, and telling me so, and I am very sorry for always leaving you hanging. The river ran dry for a while, I was busy with other projects, but hey, water under the bridge, right? (Yeah right.) I'm quite sure you're all just skimming this part. You just wanna go ahead and read, so I'll stop here.

**The Prodigal Son**

Outside, the winds were blowing noisily, rapping against the windows and frames. The sky churned a menacing color, a bottomless black, and soon the tinkles of rain could be heard, dancing against the glass of the windowpanes. The ominous temperature of the weather outside had even entered the halls of the manor, triggering a somewhat oddly unfamiliar haze to their surroundings – even to Hermione Granger, who had been a temporary resident there for quite some time now.

Dinner was a futile occasion. As of now, she had eaten perhaps (approximately) four pieces of carrots, a bite of her roast beef, and two peas. She was eating dinner in the kitchen with the elves, who were on their dinner break as well. She couldn't exactly say why she had taken to hiding in the kitchens, but part of it, she reckoned as she stared gloomily around at their bulbous eyes, was because she wasn't particularly feeling up to facing the people of the house right now. Perhaps it was just the entire ordeal with Harry and Ron. Remus would be humiliating to face, as well, and Snape. She could already see the sizzling looks of hate and degradation he would be "secretly" shooting her at the table, as if she was a pile of cow manure someone had freshly picked off of the farm.

What farm, you ask?

The Mudblood farm.

Oh, that wasn't even remotely funny.

"Why does Miss look so green?" one of the elves asked worriedly, and Rocher, who'd been sitting some distance away had uncannily heard this and snorted very loudly.

Hermione shot him a look, but instead placed her chin on her palm, shaking her head, trying to smile at the house-elves. And she did so, but only faintly. It was not as brilliant a smile as she could have mustered – but hey, under these circumstances, it took a real champ to smile like one of those toothpaste models you see on TV. And Hermione liked toothpaste, all right; she liked it as much as the next person, but the smiling thing? Always kind of creeped her out. Don't ask why. It just did.

"It's nothing, trust me. I'm okay."

A pair of big eyes stared back at her.

"Why does Miss lie to us?"

The other elves began to murmur and nod their oddly proportioned heads, a fuss circulating all the way down the table.

"I'm-I'm not lying," said Hermione, surprised.

Whoa – house-elf _lie detectors_? What had the Malfoys _done to their elves_?

"Really," she said, trying to emanate with the illusion of honesty, which was beyond her. She didn't know how the hell she could possibly _emanate with the illusion of honesty_ – but she was trying. "I'm all right."

"Miss lies to us a second time!" another elf exclaimed, and then there was an even louder raucous. She looked around in absolute bewilderment as the frenzy of house-elves looked scandalized by her denial, not knowing what to do. It had not particularly hit her that house-elves could read a person so well… or was it really a matter of transparency? (Or, had the Malfoys _really_ somehow had come up with House-Elf Lie Detectors, '_Coming Soon to a Store Near You'_?) She began to think to herself that she really should practice lying in front of a mirror, or get some instructional tapes. Then again, it was always tricky with how those things worked. Maybe she should just drink a potion, or something. That would work better, definitely. But then she remembered all of the possible consequences and shit-stances that those things always put people in, the poor souls thinking they could get away with lying, and suddenly it wasn't as appealing as it once was. The drinking-a-potion-to-be-a-better-liar thing.

And, also, she'd seen that movie Jim Carey was in, the one about lying. And anything with Jim Carey scared the hell out of her, so that was a negative on the Lying as a Super Power notion.

"Does Miss not trust us?" one of the elves asked her.

"Why?" one of them cried hoarsely.

"We are good elves!" they all wailed.

"No, no!" Hermione shouted, trying to calm them down. In the back of her mind, she wondered if they would start an elf riot over her lying to them. They looked heinously and ridiculously offended, and it was _weird_.

"Please, quiet down! It's not that I don't trust you –"

"Is it the Master?" they asked, their eyes large and inquisitive. "Has the Master done something bad? Because Master likes you very much. Master is different lately, since you have come."

Hermione felt a prick in her throat and heard what seemed like a hollow gong in her ears. But she was just looking down at her plate, assembling her peas in different shapes: first a triangle, then a circle, then some kind of quadrilateral. But even though she couldn't look into their innocuous eyes and tell them the straight truth, she spoke loud, and clear – hopefully to the point that her tone pinged off of the tines of their forks.

"No, it isn't your Master. He hasn't done anything bad."

Surprise surprise. Now there was a sentence she _never_ thought she'd ever say.

There was silence.

"Is it Miss?" squeaked one elf. "Has Miss done something bad to Master?"

Automatically, as if it was rigged, she laughed dryly, as if there was gravel in her throat.

"I don't know. I suppose you can say that."

They began to murmur amongst themselves again.

"What did Miss do?" one asked very inquisitively, his large eyes like orbs of childlike curiosity and concern. The worst thing about these elves was that they seemed to like Draco to a shocking extent – and genuinely _cared_ about him. This puzzled her. They were his _slaves_. They called him "Master." That, in itself, was degrading. She'd always wondered why house-elves had never had a revolution – or, a _revolucion_! She'd heartily jump at the opportunity to sponsor them. But no, they didn't want a revolution. Apparently, all they wanted was to rub Hermione Granger's inability to lie in her face – amongst other things, like their master.

And when she opened her mouth to say something, she almost said just that – asked why the hell they were so concerned – but just closed her mouth again. Because it wasn't fair for her to throw that in her faces like this, when all they were doing was asking her questions. Damn things. They were so innocent, and she kind of hated it a little.

The thing was, she just hated thinking about it. The past. Who he was before. A rat bastard with a fetish for too much hair gel that she was almost so damn sure that the hair gel had seeped through his scalp and had gotten a hold of his brain – and that's why he talked the way he did. With a stupid drawl, and a stupid smirk. Thinking about it, about how he was, who he was, all of those damn things he'd said to her and everyone else… it made her want to spit on him, turn around, and never look back. Like that one Bible story about the wife that looked back after the angel told her not to and had been turned into a pile of salt. How Hermione wished she had that kind of motivation – don't look back, or else you'll be turned into a pile of salt. God, if only things were that easy. If only she could have a one-track mind and disregard everything else inside her. Once she heard someone say that the worst possible thing in the world was to be in a war inside and outside yourself. She reckoned that put a sticker on right where she was right now. These days she woke up with questions and went to sleep with even bigger questions.

And what good did that do anyone? Honestly?

No matter how hard she tried to think up a lie, something artificial and completely unrelated, their question was strung along in her head, from eardrum to eardrum – like a clothesline of things she couldn't face, not yet. But maybe this was why house-elves lived such simple lives: they didn't complicate things like humans. They told it like it was. No shame in it.

Damn house-elves. Making things look so easy.

"I made the same exact mistake I made a year ago," she sighed. "Turns out, I'm not any smarter than I was before. Not even a little bit."

In her mind, that was some painful comedy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Draco stood in what seemed like an incredible, nightmarish place. It was hard to believe these places really existed – you know, the kind they show in the movies and read about in Stephen King books – but it wasn't, really. Not for Draco. In all honesty, he'd seen worse places. Dirty loos. Sweatshops. The Dirty South.

No, that was a lie. Now this was a damned scary place. The kind that dirty loos and sweatshops couldn't even _compare_ to. There was darkness everywhere – not a bit of light eluded through; the darkness was too thick, too solid. He knew almost immediately when he was standing on evil ground, enveloped by an evil place: it was in the air, in the soil. There was a striking remarkable quality to it, the way every bone in his ribs contracted once he caught that whiff of evil and ice, every vessel in his body tightened and paused, and his heart became almost as cold as the air surrounding him.

He hated being here. He'd been here before. In his dreams, in reality – sometimes he'd dream about it, but he was pretty certain it wasn't a dream. That it'd been reality, trapped inside a dream. He knew because sometimes he woke up and he smelt like dirt, or like smoke. See, the worst thing about having your whole life planned out in ink on the whole Death Eater Blueprint was that you couldn't escape it. And yeah, he knew people like Granger and Dumbledore talked about how you always have a choice – it's up to _you_ to make your future; exactly the type of rubbish you expect from after school specials. And sometimes, as cruel as it was, that's what he imagined Granger and Dumbledore and all of those Faith-swearing people were: living, breathing, live-action after-school specials, right in your face, waving their morals and sappy ideals around like the bloody Crusades. Except, well, less violent. Maybe.

But the fact was: nobody understood. And he didn't blame them; nobody _could_. Not the ever intrusive and intoxicating Granger, not Harry-bleeding-Potter, not Dumbledore. Not even his mother. Not even Snape.

People like them liked to think people could turn to the light. And Draco had been in it, for a while. But it damn near blinded him. He'd been in the dark for so damn long the light practically melted his face off – had burned out his pupils and turned his eyes into scabs. So exactly what was he supposed to do? Stay in the light, where he had no hope of fitting in, of getting used to the burns? Or shift back to where he was born, the dank shadows, where he was comfortable? It was cliché any way he looked at it. Turning to the good: cliché. Staying with the bad: cliché, but in its own way. Cliché in the way that it would seem to Hermione and her little folkie friends – Potter would never let her live it down, he reckoned, and he kind of felt sorry about that. If he could spare her any misery that she would feel from his actions (because it simply wasn't fair), he would, even if sometimes all he wished for was for her to feel as terrible as he did.

There came a slight rustle, and Draco, snapping out of his thoughts, became largely aware of another presence standing with him. He was silent, but inside he couldn't tell if he was petrified or not – he'd only felt this in his dreams. It was different in his dreams. No – no, it was the same.

He couldn't tell.

He could feel eyes burning through him, this sort of existence that haunted him in his sleep. He didn't speak; his throat had gone a little dry. It had been a while – a long while since he had faced him. And he'd have been a fool to tell you that he wasn't scared of the Dark Lord – he was, like hell he was. But what made him different from the rest of the Death Eaters and his father was that with that fear was also contempt, and disgust – pity, hate. There was no respect, no admiration. Not anymore. He'd done away with those a long time ago.

But then why was he here? He was giving in. He'd calculated it, the outcome, and the dreams were tireless. There was seldom a person who could escape when the Dark Lord hunted for them; that's what he'd been doing for the last six months. Hunting him, haunting him. Sending him dreams and promises. That was how he got people – and apparently, that was how he got Draco, too.

If stalking was an Olympic sport, he was convinced Bell and Voldemort would be in for a tight race.

Then there was a menacing whisper, a taunting chuckle.

"_Draco Malfoy."_

He shivered, but kept his face impassive, his leer strong. The voice passed from both ears, creating a blanket of ice in his lungs. The air quickly froze around him, and soon his breathing became uneven and ragged. He felt asthmatic.

"You've come to seek me, have you?"

The voice conveyed a great deal of amusement and satisfaction, and Draco could almost see the treacherous, lip-less smile of the Dark Lord. He remembered the times he speculated the wonders of cosmetic magic, and whether they would ever be strong enough to fix the Dark Lord's ugly old mug. But then he realized it might've been a bigger task than he'd thought. From frog prince to Prince Charming?

Eh.

Draco spoke.

"You said you would spare my mother and I."

The Dark Lord's grin widened, following the curved smile of the moon.

"Ah, I see you have finally come for a negotiation. I knew you wouldn't let me down, young Malfoy. I see great potential in you. You will be greater than your father, boy, if you are willing to work for it."

The Dark Lord was circling him.

Suddenly, he felt breaths against his ear. His voice passing through his eardrum, down his throat, plunging to the pit of his stomach, scarring him – inside out. He reckoned the Dark Lord had never heard of personal space.

"Are you willing to work for such a title, Draco?"

Draco didn't blink, didn't fidget. "Yes."

Then the Dark Lord was gone. He heard a monstrous chuckling surround him, hollow and cruel. Above him, the cloud finally passed, and the thin slice of the moon appeared in the sky, revealing Voldemort before him in dark robes smudging right into the darkness, his pale skin glowing ghostly from the scarce light. He was smiling a horrible smile, one that made the bottom of Draco's stomach give a violent lurch.

Suddenly, he felt like he was fourteen again.

"Good! Very good."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night, Severus Snape received a summoning in his dreams. It was odd, because the man rarely got any sleep at all – he was too busy planning, worrying, having secret meetings, and concocting potions. But this was not a dream that came from sleep – it was a message the Dark Lord sent made up of images and visions that swept right through his mind. It came in a quick instant, and was gone just the same. And there was never any physical trace of it; just the clamminess of his even paler skin, and the cold sweat he felt dampen the fabric of his robes.

He could hear the words echoing in his ears, feeling something in his chest plummet, as if he'd just been knocked down by a tide sent by the angry sea.

"Severus, well done. The boy has come."

And then there was laughing. A lot of it.

It was never a good thing – never a good thing at all – when the Dark Lord laughed. Severus knew enough about the Dark Lord to know at least that.

Overwhelmed and suddenly troubled, he sat down on the edge of his bed and lowered his head into his hands.

"Oh God, boy," he groaned. "What have you done?"

Behind him, the clock chimed thirteen times.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Draco returned in the morning, he was surprised to find his mother in his room. He paused slightly when he noticed her elegant figure by his bookshelf, before carrying on, disposing his robe on his armchair. She turned around and looked up at him with her light eyes, her hair swept up into a sophisticated bun, wearing deep blue robes that unknowingly accentuated her porcelain skin. Many people called his mother the Living Doll, along with the infamous title The Ice Queen. But the thing about his mother was that she was beautiful no matter what – beautiful in such an eerie way that it was captivating but frightening at the same time, and it caught people off guard. He'd seen what affect his mother had on men – they were floored by her face, and her air, but simultaneously shivered because of the coldness that radiated from her.

Draco, however, had gotten used to it. His mother's "iciness" was actually quite warm compared to what _he'd_ encountered.

"Mother," he nodded to her. "Not entertaining our guests yet this morning?"

She closed the book she was holding and calmly smiled at him.

"Hello, son." Then she held up something, a photograph, in the middle of her fingers. "And, no. I was looking for a bit of light reading in your library and I found this, lodged into one of the books."

Draco, his heart jumping at the photograph, quickly jumped up to his feet and snatched it away from her. Narcissa only twiddled her fingers, looking at him with a slight twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh yes," she acknowledged. "My son is too proud a man."

Then she smiled – a smile Draco had never seen, not even when he'd been little. It was a cunning smile, a smile only worn by little schoolgirls first discovering the pleasures of flirting and short skirts. And it was strange, because he'd never in his life _dreamed_ of seeing his mother as the pig-tailed, short-skirted, giggling schoolgirl type – nor was he quite sure he wanted to.

"Then again, proud men are never too proud to keep photographs of the women they love – just proud enough to keep them hidden away." She paused. "And in good Russian literature, might I add."

Draco was – beyond which he could ever articulate – embarrassed that his mother had found the picture he'd stolen from Granger's apartment (stupid, _stupid_ thing to do) that he'd randomly chosen to hide away in one of the books in his library (ditto here). And now, as his mother smiled down on him with her thin pink lips and smiling eyes, as if in some way to tease him, he could hardly stand it. It irritated him. He wished he could burn the damn picture now, for all it was worth.

Damn it. Now she'd never let him live this down.

(Though maybe that wouldn't matter. Maybe he wouldn't live long enough to _not_ be able to live it down.)

"She's a nice girl."

"She's also haughty, self-righteous, anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, a know-it-all, a shameless do-gooder, a shoe-polisher, a Potter-worshipper, insufferable, annoying – and did I mention she's a basketcase? Because I think that should come out, in big, bold-printed letters, on the front page of the Daily Prophet," Draco spat. "Then she should be sent away – far away, out into the Caribbean, in a metal cage, with a million tiny locks that don't have a key."

And Narcissa just kept smiling that intolerable smile.

"Every front has to go down sometime, son."

He glared at his mother. "I'm tired. I need a little sleep before I face Potter or else I might just punch his face in for no good reason except that he's again succeeded in looking too ugly to bear. Was there anything else you wanted?"

"Yes. Where were you?"

Draco didn't answer her. She continued.

"You just came in this morning. Severus came knocking at my door at three in the morning shouting about where you'd gone, and I refused to believe the man because I think he's a bit barmy sometimes." She was giving him a steady look. "He seemed to think you'd gone and met with the Dark Lord. Of course, I have every reason to believe otherwise – unless, of course, you did, and were planning on telling me so."

"I went out – I needed some fresh air," he simply said.

"And did you meet with anyone?"

"No."

Narcissa's smile had long faded and instead, pressed on her graceful features, was a look of sternness. The seriousness of the situation had proceeded in bringing out the ferocity in her eyes, the icicle-like substance in them. She did not press her son for any more explanations, but simply nodded.

"Very well then, I trust you."

But as she left, she left with the knowledge that her only son had lied straight to her face – and could only find comfort in the possibility that maybe he had done so because there was a greater good; a greater good nobody else could see, except him.

However, not the same could be said about Professor Snape, who had ambushed Draco the first chance he could even get. It was actually quite funny – to a hypothetical third party. But no living soul had ever seen the Potions Master move so fast, with his black robes billowing behind him.

Draco had just been walking through the corridor when suddenly somebody had grabbed a fistful of his collar, dragging him and forcefully pinning him up against the wall. There he faced the venomous snarl of his former Head of House, his eyes glinting like smooth black beetles, boring into him with a fierce accusation written all over his face.

"Boy, where were you last night?" he spat.

"Nowhere," Draco grunted, trying to fight him off. He could feel the sticky hotness of his breath sinking into his pores.

"Liar," he growled. "Tell me where you were last night, _now_."

"I just went out for some fresh air," Draco told him, but he swallowed hard when he felt the point of his professor's wand stabbing into the sensitive flesh of his neck. He could smell the pungent scent of his breath – morning breath, so they called it. Smelled _horrible_.

"God, Snape," Draco groaned, trying to turn his face away. "Brush much?"

Snape didn't hear him. "Tell me the truth, Malfoy, or by _God_, I will turn your throat inside out."

"I already told you," Draco snapped, "I was _out_ getting some _fresh air_."

"No you _weren't_, you slimy little bastard," Snape hissed, putting more pressure against his throat. Draco tried not to flinch, even though he thought the man would dislodge his throat if he pressed it in any harder. "You met with him, didn't you? You met with the _Dark Lord_. Didn't you?" He began to yell. "_Didn't you?"_

He had never seen this side of his professor before – wild, unbridled. Usually he was the slimy, oily sort of man with his depressing trademark black robes and the nonexistent social life (well, except for Death Eaters – oh, how fun!), with the dripping drawl and criticizing leers. But here there was savageness in his eyes, and suddenly the composure of his drawl and the menacing stature of his walk had all been quickly disposed of.

Draco would never know how much his former Head of House cared for him, exactly, because he would never tell him. But he did care, unless he would have never gotten to his ends like this, almost murdering him right in that very corridor. He feared what he'd thought would happen if the Dark Lord had gotten his hands on him had, in fact, happened – and this fear – so monstrous in size and hunger – had eaten him whole. He _had_ to know.

And perhaps he would have, if he'd managed to knock around and scare his former student a little bit more – but then there was shouting, and suddenly he felt a curse exploding on his spine, hurling him to the floor.

As the Potions professor looked up from his back, tired and insane from the hours of worrying, he saw up what seemed to be Remus Lupin's nostrils – but not before the point of his wand, directed straight at his face.

Draco Malfoy, shocked and stunned at what had just happened, and admittedly a little disgruntled (being unexpectedly mauled by a grown man did that to a person) only saw a blur before he'd seen Snape on the ground and Lupin hurriedly step over, his wand ready for any of movement. Snape's wand had been hurtled a yard away, and so now the professor was defenseless. Even his wit and poisonous drawl had been knocked out of him for a few good seconds.

Then Draco saw Hermione Granger, standing a few steps behind Lupin, where he figured Lupin had originally been when he'd encountered them. He saw the surprise on her face, and even saw as she seemed to open her mouth to say something to him, but then closed it, as if remembering who he was and exactly how complicated things were between them. Draco didn't blame her – he didn't have a thing to say to her, either. Well, actually, he could think of a few right off the bat just because he was Draco Malfoy, but quite honestly he was a little peeved at her right now. Or – actually, more than a little.

Okay, he was peeved at her a _lot_.

"Severus, leave the boy alone," Remus said down to him, calmly and mildly.

"Sod off, Remus," Snape spat, trying to get back up. When he'd finally gotten back on his feet, he began to round on Draco again, like a predator ready to pounce on his prey, and Draco could imagine him getting another fistful of his collar – before Remus barked at him, his wand pointed at his chest.

"Leave him _alone_," he said again.

And with one last withering glare directed to all three of them, Severus Snape, with a billow of his dramatic dark robes, left the corridor.

Remus Lupin sighed, tucking his wand back into his pocket. He looked at Draco curiously. "Now, I know Snape is indeed a very peculiar man… but what was that all about?"

"Nothing," Draco curtly answered. "He ran out of shampoo."

Lupin caught the hint. "I swear that man is simply too dramatic. Anyway, I do apologize for that, Draco. Everybody's been teased by needles around here. I reckon that old scarecrow's just about reached the end of his stick." Then he plastered on that same friendly smile, though Draco himself could see that it was forced. "Now let's go on and get some breakfast, shall we?"

"No," Draco drawled, still disturbed by Snape's ambush. "I'm not hungry." He tried his best not to look behind Lupin, where Granger stood, not having said a word. But he could see the way she was looking at him from the corner of his eyes, with concern, until he finally raised his eyes to her and she quickly turned her face away.

"Are you certain?" Remus asked. "Well, if you're certain. Hermione and I will head on down. Do join us if you crave a bite, Mister Malfoy."

Remus led the way to the dining area with Hermione silently trailing behind. Neither were particularly hungry (it was hard to be hungry with such high tensions around here) but they went, anyway, just to have something to do.

When they entered the dining area, they joined Harry and Tonks at the table, which had already been filled with mounds of hot food. As usual, everything was impeccable: the silverware was spotless, there were fresh flowers, and the food was never too hot or too cold, not even the porridge. The Malfoy Manor was indeed well-managed, there was not even a speck of dust anywhere in the house – but Hermione caught a quick glance of Narcissa Malfoy walking down the forbidden part of the house (the part the guests weren't even allowed to go into), unlit and seemingly separated from the rest of the manor. _Locked doors mean secrets_, she couldn't help but think. And indeed every house had its secrets, but the Malfoy Manor seemed to have more than was bearable – every night, it took every ounce of logic she had not to sneak out of her room and explore the house, both the open and the forbidden.

It was then she thought about how fitting the Manor seemed to fit the Malfoys. So many locked doors and dark passages. The grandeur, aloof blueprint of the mansion, which was not as to say the house didn't have personality. It did, loads of it. But to think, standing outside, it had so many windows… yet none had been opened for decades.

She conversed with Tonks and Lupin, but Harry seemed oddly out of sorts. He spoke every once in a while but appeared to keep to himself, and even when Hermione tried to bring up a topic, Quidditch, to cheer him up he only made a mild remark about it and then returned to his food.

"I bet you'd like to fly again, wouldn't you, Harry?" she said, and even though her voice was sincere, inside her head she was a little annoyed that Harry was brushing her off like this. But before she could hear his reply she felt a sudden surge of pain on her head and she screeched out, clutching her scalp. There was a sudden fuss at the table as Tonks and Lupin jumped up, knocking their goblets over, the silverware loudly clattering on their plates.

An owl had suddenly swooped by, twittering and hooting. It circled the table with a small clump of Hermione's hair in its claws. Then, suddenly, it was gone. With a _poof!_ it disappeared, leaving only small white wisps, and Tonks was muttering under her breath as she sat back down on her seat.

"Damn Malfoy owls," she said. "What the _hell_ do they put in their feed?" She looked over at Hermione. "Sorry about that. Sometimes the Malfoy owls manage to get out of their cage. How's your head?"

"It's all right," Hermione said, still wincing as she touched the tender spot on her scalp where the hair had been ripped out.

"Do you need to get it looked at?"

Hermione looked up. Harry was looking at her intently.

"No," she said to him. "No, it's okay. I'll be fine. It's just a bit of hair, that's all."

"Yes, I'm sure she can manage," said Lupin. "You've got plenty of hair, don't you, Hermione? There's no need to fret."

And so they continued their meal. Tonks and Lupin silently picked out a piece of Hermione's hair from their porridges and Harry went back to minding himself while Hermione made up her mind to ask for some ice after breakfast.

After they were all finished talking and nibbling at their food (nobody could really eat heartily), Lupin and Tonks took it upon themselves to see what the fuss about the Malfoy gardens was all about, and Harry and Hermione began to head back to their rooms – in a pointed silence. A really, _really_ awkward pointed silence. And Hermione was itching to get out of it, so she attempted to make conversation, even though she sounded like an idiot. She'd accepted that by now one must be the idiot every now and then. Though, it didn't help that she was still a little irritated with Harry because really, him giving her the silent treatment 'til the morning was just – well, Drama Queen status, to be honest. And sure, Hermione had known Harry long enough to know that he did have a Drama Queen inside him (and he sure had busted it out more than anyone would have wanted), but really. She thought he'd have grown out of that by now.

"This is ridiculous," she finally said. She turned to Harry, clutching his arms. "What is it?"

"What's what?" he asked, though he didn't seem genuinely surprised.

"I mean," she said, running one hand through her hair, "obviously, you're giving me the silent treatment, and quite frankly, Harry Potter, I can do well without it."

Harry just looked at her. He could have gone the easy way (by saying that he was only tired) or the hard way (by telling her the truth). This time he chose the truth, because he was tired of all the lies around here.

"I just don't know what to think about you anymore, Hermione."

She blinked. She reassessed his words. Then she silently drew in her breath. "Okay." She looked at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means" – He sighed out of frustration – "it means that I don't know how I bloody feel about this Malfoy business, okay, Hermione? It's just _weird_. After what happened at Ron's – I mean, really, the _f-word_? _Really_? I think that constitutes a bit more than madness than we need, Hermione. It's just… really… there isn't even a word for it. I don't know what you were thinking."

"How exactly is it _weird_?" Hermione asked, without thinking. It was now a known fact that she had a tendency for blurting things out, so this didn't surprise anyone. "You _knew_, Harry, that Malfoy and I had something going on before—"

"Yes, and that's _exactly_ why it's weird!" he said, raising his voice. "Because he came _back_, Hermione! Now _how_ bloody _strange_ is that? It's not! _That's_ why it's strange! Because he came back, and now you're just-you're—"

She'd taken to gritting her teeth. "I'm what, Harry?"

He sighed, his tense shoulders falling limp again. "Forget it. Forget it, Hermione, I'm just going to go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"No," she said, firmly. "Say it. Say what you were going to say. I'm _what_, Harry?"

He was quiet, his lips pressed together. He was looking at her intently. "You're falling for it again. That's what I was going to say. You're falling for it again, Hermione. Just like before. In the beginning, I thought it was all going to be okay, because you hated him. And you hated his guts. But now… it's quite obvious you don't. Maybe you never did. I don't know."

"But you're wrong," she spat, though inside she wasn't particularly sure of who she was trying to convince here. "You're _wrong_, Harry. I _do_ hate him. I hate him _loads_, as a matter of fact – I've never hated him more than I do right at very this moment!"

"Yeah, Hermione," he said, aggravated, "but it's not the same. You hate him for all the wrong reasons. Because he broke your heart. If he hadn't done that, you wouldn't hate him at all."

"But he _did_ break my heart, Harry, and that's the point. That, and he's a git. But right now, right now," she seethed, "to be honest, I can't quite see the difference between you and him in that department."

He shook his head. "You don't hate him, Hermione," he said quietly. "You just really, really want to." He sighed sharply. "I wish you would just see that, and spare yourself. It's getting ridiculous, really."

And then he left, telling her that he would just see her in the morning. And Hermione, though she'd been itching to say something back, something that would contradict everything Harry bloody Potter had just told her, found that she couldn't. She was absolutely frozen. She couldn't believe Harry; how little minded he thought she was, how absolutely foolish, and stupid, and just… everything he had said. And you know what absolutely got her? What was the absolute _worst_ of everything? That it was true. All of it. It was true.

Yes, Harry Potter was a drama queen. But he wasn't _stupid_.

Hermione couldn't say anything back because she knew it was feckless. It was no use trying to fool someone who knew it just as much as she did, and would it be out of line to say that it really sort of killed her inside that it had to be Harry? Or maybe it was everybody in this damn place. Maybe it was some sort of evil conspiracy. Maybe everybody in here knew about everything, and she was just the fool, thinking she held all of the cards, when really, she held none. None. Ditto. Nada. All she was holding was her beaten and battered heart on a yo-yo string, and maybe a dirty old cup, asking for some spare change. Or some spare sanity, more like.

See, Hermione knew she was an idiot. Really. She'd just been in fierce denial all this time, because she was good at that – like she was good at reading extremely lengthy books about nothing, and good at infuriating select people hand-picked by God at the beginning of time (like, say, Draco Malfoy). But she reckoned there came a time to draw the line between being in denial and being plain stupid and mental – a time in which she did not know existed, until now. Which was absolute stupidity.

God forbid, a moment in which the only substance to her was her stupidity.

Now that's a whole lot of stupidity.

She stood in the corridor for a few minutes, incensed yet dumbfounded. She couldn't tell who she was angrier with – Malfoy, or her. Or Harry. Or maybe even her parents, for raising their daughter and never once telling her "Never fall for the bad boy." Because she did. And she made out with him. Then he lied. Then he came back, and the same thing happened again. She fell for him. She made out with him. Only this time, on the floor, with people watching.

Her parents had never bothered to tell her that. And she really partially blamed it on their half-arsed upbringing. Her mother had always told her to go for the impossible – well, she'd certainly be proud of Hermione now, literally _going_ for the _impossible_: Draco Malfoy!

So she couldn't be bothered, not at all, when she found her feet stomping around to another room – not hers, not Harry's. But her feet led themselves to the door of someone that she felt was driving her so damn insane that it should've been considered a crime against humanity. He was like one of those Japanese torture methods. Dripping water on the middle of her forehead until she really just wanted to shoot herself in the head. Because the truth was, Draco Malfoy had an effect on everybody. He had an effect on Harry. On Ron. And most especially, her. She really wished it wasn't the case, but if wishes were ponies, then Hermione Granger would have a hell of a lot more ponies than she'd ever know what to do with in her entire lifetime. She believed she couldn't even contain them all in a ranch. There would simply be too many. Maybe she could have a whole island just for her ponies. Or Russia.

She just didn't know what to do with herself right now. But she knew – she absolutely knew – that she had to do _something_. Her body was buzzing with determination and grit. She felt like hitting something. She felt like swearing. She felt like making the whole world feel her frustration and turbulent whirlwind of the so many difficult, complicated emotions through some sort of cataclysm – a natural disaster, or the second coming of Jesus Christ. Something like that. Though, maybe not the Jesus thing. Maybe that was a little too extreme.

But – she did not _hate_ Malfoy.

She hated what he did to her, and she _thought_ – she always liked to think – that that was enough.

After their last confrontation… well, a lot of things had been said, and she thought they'd straightened things out between them. That the kiss was a mistake (boy, how that conversation seemed like a déjà vu), and that they couldn't possibly be mad enough to-to _rekindle_ whatever fire they had before, whatever the hell that meant. And, that, well, Draco Malfoy would always be the villain in any situation. He was the one that told her that this time. And silly her; she'd agreed. She didn't know why it was silly, but she rather thought it was now. Maybe he'd been looking for something when he'd told her that. Maybe he'd been waiting for her to tell him that no, he _wasn't_ the villain – because _Voldemort_ was the villain, not him. Maybe that had been her chance to let him in, to finally accept him into their side (because damn it, she'd always been bloody rubbing it in his face that he wasn't _really_ good). And she blew it.

She'd absolutely blown it.

But she was forced to face it. She still had feelings for the stupid old prick. (Well, duh.) And not just any feelings, either – but the worst one of them all. The _Big_ One. The one that threatened to wreak havoc on her life, and her friends. She couldn't believe it, it was mere and absolute madness, and she was halfway wishing somebody would just knock some sense into her, however much force was needed or whatever equipment, whether it be a jackhammer or a wrecking ball – but _dear Merlin_ she was still in _love_ with the beast.

God, that _sucked_.

That sucked more than anything else she'd ever experienced in her life.

Did it matter that they'd simply hurt each other too much in the short expanse of their still yet-to-be-lived life? Because honestly she thought that she'd hurt him far too much for her to ever deserve him – and he'd hurt her far too much to ever deserve her. It was a sort of backwards thinking, but now she was realizing that maybe they hurt each other like this, like it was the fucking Hurt-O-Rama, because somewhere deep inside it did not matter. They _wanted_ to deserve each other. They _knew_ they deserved each other – by some macabre, bizarre, and _deeply_ perverse twist of fate. Because he came back, didn't he? Harry was right. He came back, and she fell for it again. Even with her guards up.

That _had_ to be saying something.

Or maybe she'd never even fallen out of love with him in the first place. Maybe she'd wanted so badly to hate him that it'd blocked that part out. Or maybe she was just a _very_ silly girl.

Yeah. Maybe.

When she was finally at his door, she raised her fist to the wood and knocked loudly. Then she stopped. She listened for his footsteps. Then she knocked again.

"Come on," she said to herself, "open your bloody door, Draco."

Then finally, as she was just about to knock another time, his door opened, and there they were. Standing face to face. Gryffindor to Slytherin. Boy to Girl.

Crazy person to crazy person.

He was not pleased to see her. At all. Meaning not even a microscopic bit. In fact, the moment he saw that it was her, he sneered, and she couldn't help but remember how similar things were now to how they had been at Hogwarts, before their… entanglement.

And how not.

"Malfoy," she found herself saying. And not very nicely, either, for this was all a very spontaneous, rushed kind of thing – and it was terrifying, a little. "I love you."

To which he promptly responded by slamming the door right in her face.

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Would it be too much to ask you to review? Yeah, I thought so. So I'll just use my magical mind powers to make you guys do it instead. :) 


	15. The Plan

If it was you

A/N: So, obviously, NOT DH-compliant, after you guys read THAT piece of crap. Sorry. I'm just totally bitter about the epilogue and the people who died… I totally hate canon…

Thanks to my loyal readers and reviewers. You guys are amazing.

**The Plan**

Hermione Granger had never had a door slammed in her face. Nor had she had it slammed in her face when she'd been in the act of expressing very personal and affectionate feelings; it was a very rude, and _vile_ thing to do. So of course, she was shocked. Stunned beyond belief at the immensely nasty _thing_ that had been done to her.

So, after gasping in complete and total offense, fuming, she began to knock again. It had never occurred to her that maybe she should just walk away – she'd done what she'd wanted to do (though, she hadn't really _known_ it was what she'd wanted to do until she'd actually _done_ it), and he'd literally slammed the door in her face. Maybe he'd heard her. Maybe he hadn't.

"Malfoy, open your damn door!" she started to shout. "_Malfoy_!"

He opened it again, but his expression didn't change. To be honest, it looked as if it'd gotten even fouler, though maybe it was just her eyes playing tricks on her.

(It wasn't. It really _had_ gotten fouler.)

"I can't believe you had the absolute _nerve_ to slam the door on me while—"

"While what, Granger?" he snarled. "Because to be honest, I could have left you out here all day. I could have simply cast a silencing spell to conceal your knocks to my ears. I didn't _have_ to answer the door, but I did. Now _that_ was an act of consideration and kindness. And to be quite damn _frank_ with you, _Hermione_, _you're_ not my most favorite person in this place right now. In fact, Potter's looking pretty good right now from where you are with me."

"I can't bloody believe you," Hermione seethed. "Here I am, trying to be _honest_ for once—"

"Oh yes, well, God help us all if Hermione Granger isn't distributing a bit of truth in the world," he hissed.

"Stop interrupting me!"

"Stop knocking on my door!"

And then he tried to close the door on her again, but she'd wedged her foot in so that he couldn't.

"Granger, your _foot_, or you're going to be limping for the rest of your life."

"Malfoy, did you even _hear_ what I said?"

He let go of the door, his face emanating with his anger. "Yes, of _course_ I heard you, you stupid bint!" he shouted. "It doesn't take a bloody _genius_, you know! I already _knew_ it!"

She didn't know why, but she started to cry – and not tears of joy, either. "You already knew?" It was a stupid question, undoubtedly one of the stupidest questions to have ever fled her mouth (or ever had been conjured up in her overcrowded brain), because – of _course_ he knew. It was just one of those things, she reckoned, you would have been daft _not_ to know. So why had she bothered even telling him? In fact, what had been her ultimate goal harassing Draco Malfoy's door and then telling him that she loved him? To publicly humiliate herself, like those men who urinated in the middle of the street with no cover? Or maybe just to wrench the Evil Past of Doom wide open and stick it in his face, asking whether she should throw it out or keep it as some sort of pet?

"Granger, I may be a prick, but I'm not stupid. _You're_ the only one around here who's been snorting up on the dumb drug, so excuse me if I think you're a little too late telling me that you love me."

"Too _late_?" Hermione echoed, her vision starting to get all blurry. She quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it doesn't matter," Draco said lowly.

"_It doesn't matter_?" But she felt her temper creeping up on her again, starting from the backs of her ankles to the nape of her neck, until she could feel it reaching around her throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, she was starting to pick up the pieces in her head. She had a flashback of Hogwarts. The Dark Mark. She looked down at his arm, but it was still unmarked. Unblemished.

"If you're trying to push me away," she said through her teeth, as firmly as she could, "it isn't working."

"I'm afraid you're the expert at pushing people away, Granger, not me."

"Don't say that."

"Don't say what?"

"That I _pushed you away_. That _isn't_ true."

"Right. What was I thinking?" Draco was shaking his head. "You didn't _push_ me away. Silly me. You _harassed_ me away."

She scowled at him. "That isn't funny."

"I'm not a clown, Granger. It wasn't supposed to be."

She was quiet for a while. "So that's it, then?" she said, dryly laughing a little, even though she didn't really know why. This was funny. Her finally coming around to tell him that she loved him after all of these agonizing weeks and months and she was being blocked off. It was the sad kind of funny, though. But still, a little funny.

"I've done what I've needed to do, and that's it. You're just going to tell me it's too late."

"What were you expecting, Granger?" he asked her. His face was serious.

She wanted to punch him. She didn't have her wand, so when the sudden desire for impulsive violence boiled up she resorted to more primitive actions, like fists, or maybe slapping.

And maybe she really would have, too, if they hadn't heard footsteps and suddenly looked to see Remus, Narcissa, and Tonks standing at the end of the corridor.

"Oy!" shouted Tonks, as they walked towards them. "What the bloody hell is going on up here? We could hear you all the way downstairs!"

Hermione looked down, her cheeks coloring, when she felt the three adults standing next to her and Draco. Suddenly, she felt like she was fourteen again – which was a very loathsome feeling, seeing as how she was _not_ fourteen, she was a grown _adult_. But these last few months she'd felt as if she'd been catapulted back into her adolescence, the insufferable aspects of it all: the restraints, the roadblocks, the frustrations. It was funny (and painful. Funny in the way that it was painful). The moment she'd seen his face, she'd lost all possible reins on adulthood and maturity she thought she'd had. She'd gone around _punching_ and _breaking his nose_, for God's sake!

Tonks was smirking. She patted Hermione's head like she was a little child. "Do we need to tell you children to behave?"

"They're not children," said Remus.

"Yet they insist on acting like it," commented Narcissa, her eyebrows raised. "From what _I_ heard, it wasn't a very grown-up conversation—"

"Sorry," blurted Hermione, still uncomfortable meeting their eyes. She thought they could see right through her – see that she'd just confessed her love for Draco Malfoy and that he'd slammed the door in her face. Could rejection be so blatant?

"I promise it won't happen again."

"Why not?" snorted Tonks. "It'd sure liven up this house. No offense, Narcissa. But it's just a bit… dead around here. Ever since you removed those creepy paintings, of course. Just like Sirius' place. But now it's as silent as a grave."

Narcissa gave her son a look. "We just wanted to check up on the noise."

"Surprised you haven't woken up Harry," said Remus.

"Maybe he's dead," muttered Draco under his breath.

"Oh, he's probably not even napping," Tonks said playfully, winking at Hermione. "Probably just _brooding_, like he always does. That's what heroes always do. They _brood_."

Then there was silence. An incredibly tense silence. Hermione looked down to the floor, Tonks was beaming at the top of everyone's heads, Narcissa was looking at her son, Draco was scowling, and Remus was where he was at the moment but still thinking about Harry, as always.

"Oh, Dumbledore's coming," Tonks finally said, breaking the awkwardness. "We just got an owl."

Remus tensed. Narcissa's eyes quickly shifted to her, and pursed her lips.

"Nymphadora, I don't think—"

"_Don't_ call me _Nymphadora_, Remus, how many times have I told you—"

"Yes, well," Narcissa said breezily – but quickly, and rushed. "Good to see you two haven't gotten involved in fisticuffs. We must be off. As she said, Dumbledore's coming."

"Well – is it anything—" started Hermione.

"Don't concern yourself," she said, as they all began to walk back down the hall. "If he needs to see you, you'll be summoned."

Tonks and Lupin were whispering to each other as they disappeared down the hall. When they were gone, Hermione looked up at Draco. He looked grim.

"Dumbledore's here. Does that mean—"

"I don't know, Granger."

She began to get angry. "Why doesn't anyone ever tell me _anything_ around here?"

"Now that's just not true, is it? You've been told plenty," he said annoyingly. "So just mind your own business. Go read a book or something."

"Fine," she huffed angrily, no longer wanting to be around him. She was _sickened_ by him. She turned around and began to walk away, but before she heard the click of his door, she turned around again, her eyes ablaze.

"And as for your previous question," she seethed. "A little reciprocation would be nice."

Draco looked at her, registering what she meant. '_What were you expecting?'_

For a moment, Hermione thought she saw his eyes soften. That murky gray – like fog in a harbor, or tainted rain. All she knew was, his pompous ass façade seemed to give way a little.

But when he spoke, his tone was neither nice nor icy. It was perfectly indifferent, and Hermione did not know how to take it.

"Unlike you, I find no need to tell people what they already know."

And then for the second time, he shut his door.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Severus Snape, still displeased with the spectacle (and the failure of it) in the hall with the young Malfoy, was in the dungeon, brewing the potions. He watched the rise of the smoke from the cauldron and counted stirs. He closely checked the texture and the color. But even through this routine, he was deeply enveloped by his thoughts – and none of the pleasant variety – with a pair of gleaming blue eyes leering at him from behind the iron bars.

"Severus. _Severussssssss_," the old man hissed.

Snape ignored him.

"Oh, now now, Severus. It would be foolish to act as if you don't hear me. Because if you don't hear me, then you most certainly hear the Dark Lord." He let out a grainy, guttural chuckle. "_Whispering_ in your _ear_. _Tapping_ into your _mind_." He let out a howl. "You'll never get away with this, Severus! Never! He's coming! He's _here_!"

He pounded his fists against the bars, shaking his head back like a madman. He was cackling crazily, his eyes rolling back.

"Wait 'til he finds out… oh, and he will… I can't wait," he shouted. "I can't wait for me master to return!"

"You're an _idiot_," Snape finally snarled at him, with a twisted face. "You're on a side that cannot win."

"You have so little faith, my brother," the old man said. "Is that why you're working for the light side? Because you believe the Dark cannot win?" He began to laugh again. "My, my. A fair-weather fan. One shudders to think what would happen if the Dark did win. And it will. You underestimate the Dark Lord's power."

"And _you_," snarled Snape, "_over_estimate."

Suddenly, he let out another howl – a different sort of howl. It was one of extreme pain, shrill to the ears, but just as crazed. Snape watched him closely. He began to shake about, holding his arm out. The veins on his neck began to bulge – blue, purple. When this was all done, the man was breathing heavily, his face warped like a maniac. Blood was trickling out of his nose, drool from his mouth. His eyes were glistening and sweat matted his gray hair to his forehead.

He pressed his face against the bars. An evil smirk sliced itself unto his lips.

"Can't you feel it, Severus? He's looking for you."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night, the members of the Order gathered inside the vast living room of the Malfoy Manor. They were served tea, but while some held onto their cups, they barely drank. There was intensity in the air as they waited for Dumbledore to arrive. Molly Weasley was huddled in a corner with her sons – even Ron Weasley was there, on an invitation of pity. They reckoned he deserved to know what was going on, seeing as how he would not be going along on the mission. All of the members of Dumbledore's Army were in attendance; Luna Lovegood asking if there was perhaps any pudding, and Neville quietly nibbling on some biscuits while Ginny whispered to him about something (the younger Weasley had ditched with her Head of House, apparently). Even Cho Chang came, who, to be quite honest, nobody really talked to. Seamus and Dean tried to distract their minds from the matter at hand by discussing Quidditch, though to be honest the subject did not hold the vigor it once held before.

They were all chatting quietly, nervously glancing around from time to time.

When Draco finally came down, his eyes flickered across the crowd. He spotted Granger sitting with Ron on one of the couches, her hand on top of his, talking softly. They hugged from occasionally. It was a perfectly sickening thing to watch – it got his stomach all done up in knots. He hated it how even with so much time gone he still felt jealous of her relationship with Weasley, even more so with Potter. They seemed to be an embodiment of the two people he could never be – not that he wanted to be, of course, but they were the two most important people to her, and that seemed to count as _something_. Something he really _wished_ it didn't.

It was just that he knew (he wasn't fool) that even if he did mean something to her, he wouldn't mean nearly quite as much as Weasel and Scarface. If it ever came to it, she'd always choose them instead of him. And what did he have to choose between her and someone else for? There _was_ no one else. To be quite frank, there was nobody else that mattered to him as much as she did, and it was a little pathetic.

He stepped down from the stairs and immediately felt out of place, looking around for his mother, but instead he seemed to have caught the eye of that one girl that Potter used to have a thing with. Something Chang. Chit Chang. Chi Chi Chang. It wasn't intentional, but it seemed she thought it was, because once their eyes met she made a straight beeline for him. He looked around, wanting to escape, and his eyes immediately landed on Granger. This time Potter was with them, and seeing their cozy little group didn't make him feel any better, and that didn't help him any at all.

It was obvious, though, the way she was standing there all by herself with her little tea cup that she was kind of a leper around here. Just like he was. Perhaps that was why she wanted to partner up with him, so they could be lepers together.

God. As _if_ he'd want Potter's leftovers.

Seriously, this Chi Chi Chang was not as smart as Ravenclaw House gave out.

"Hi," she said, smiling, appearing next to him.

Draco ignored her.

"I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Cho. I didn't know you were… I mean, I always thought Slytherins were…"

"Yes, it's a common myth, isn't it?" he quipped nastily.

She stammered. "Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry. I just thought—"

"Say, hear anything from that Cedric fellow?"

She instantly paled.

"You know, vacationing in Peru for this long, I really don't know. A lot of people seem to think he's dead, but I just got a post card from him last week. He's a very recluse fellow. Oh, look. Liquor."

And then he swaggered off, leaving Cho Chang as white as dust, before she burst into silent tears and cried into her tea.

Dean and Seamus, who had been silently eavesdropping, rushed over to help comfort her, glaring at his back. He also failed to notice someone else giving him a right sneer – Hermione Granger, who was over at the couch.

To be honest, there was no liquor – that they were serving, anyway – but Draco had walked off to the kitchen to chug down some of his strongest scotch, anyway. It comforted him. Made him feel sane. Hard liquor always did.

He came back when he heard a loud _Pop!_ and the soft mumbling and chatter instantly die away. He stood over at the archway, spotting the soft gold of Dumbledore's extravagant attire.

"Good evening. I assume all of you—ah, Mister Bell."

Draco's body stiffened. He quickly searched the crowd for his half-brother and finally saw him as he stepped forward. People began to whisper. Potter and Granger, he saw, were glaring at him and not bothering to hide it.

"Albus," he said smugly. "I'm here to help."

"Well," said Dumbledore, obviously not having that in mind. "We shall see." Then he turned to the others again. "It gladdens me to see all of you good and well, and to have returned. I'm sure you were all surprised to have been summoned today, but there's been a change of plans."

People began to whisper again. Dumbledore silenced them.

"It seems the Dark Lord has gained immense confidence. He may have recruited someone – someone we least expected – to aid his cause."

At this, Draco could feel the burning stare of one Severus Snape drilling right into his temple. Too bad he was good at blocking him out. He could feel his former professor trying to sneak into his thoughts, but Draco was too good at keeping him out.

_Something to hide_, he could almost hear him say. _If you're keeping me out, you've got something to hide_.

"Do you know who it is?" piped up one of the members.

"No, unfortunately, I do not," answered Dumbledore. "But I advise you to keep your guards up, for it could even be someone in this very room."

Before anyone could look around and spot him, Draco hid behind the archway, closing his eyes, gingerly holding his bottle of scotch held against his chest. His throat burned. _Tonight._

He could feel the intensity, though. Radiating through the thick walls, passing over him. He could sense everyone's eyes inspecting every single person, suspicion rising like a high tide, caution being painted all around like alarming red paint. Everyone's breathing had silenced almost so that it was undetectable. You could cut the air with a butter knife; it was that thick.

"Are you suggesting we have a traitor among us?" asked another.

Dumbledore chuckled, but it was not very reassuring. "I highly doubt it. The Order can be trusted, can it not? Every single one here has a pure heart. I am certain of it. We all have reasons we are here, and none of them can be wrong. But it still would not hurt to keep on your toes."

Draco held the glass tighter. It was cold against his sweaty, throbbing palms.

"I have been informed that the Dark Lord has begun. We must be on our guard, but we must stay put."

Everyone gasped. Then everyone began to shout out.

"_What_? We can't stay here! We _must_ have a plan!" someone said. It sounded like that Irish fellow, one of Potter's friends.

There was a smile in his voice. "That _is_ the plan."

"Albus." Draco recognized the voice to be McGonagall's. She sounded nervous. "I really don't think—"

"Yes, yes, well. Until we know exactly—"

The truth was that Dumbledore _did_ have a plan, but before he could explain any of it, some things still had to be done. Draco knew this, so Draco didn't protest. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost time. It was almost midnight. He took one last swig of scotch before he put it away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, relishing the burn he felt at the pit of his stomach. Then he stood there for a minute, trying to take it all in, before he used one of the secret Manor passageways to get to his room.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Albus Dumbledore turned to Hermione, looking at her.

"Miss Granger, I'd like to speak to you afterwards. Would you mind meeting me in the library?"

Hermione was shocked, but nodded firmly. "No, not at all, sir. I'll be there. Of course."

Ron and Harry were looking at her worriedly as Dumbledore resumed talking to the rest of the people about their duties.

"Oy, Hermione… maybe I should go with you, I mean…" said Ron, trailing off.

"I can handle myself perfectly fine, Ron," she said, intending to snap it at him, but finding her voice sounding slightly (but just slightly) flimsy. "He just wants to talk. Besides," she said, whispering, "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, just in case," he said. Then he sounded a little bitter. "You know, I'm still not over the whole me sitting idle and doing needlepoint while you two go traipsing off to fight the Big Fat Baddies."

"_Ron_."

It was Harry. He had that tone in his voice, and even without looking up Hermione could tell he had that look on his face, too. The one that said, _Don't go there_. And this time Ron didn't challenge him, because part of him understood (although he still didn't think it was fair), and as rash as he was, he reckoned the last thing everyone needed was him picking a fight. It was the one thing he could do to be helpful: keeping still and shutting up.

So he just sighed, though a bit miserably. "Right, fine. Sorry."

When Dumbledore had finally finished, Hermione got up to head upstairs, but not before she felt someone tug on her hand. She looked down to see Harry looking up at her, his hand on her hand. And then he stood up, letting go, and Ron, seeing what was going on, cleared his throat and said something about hearing Ginny calling him over before disappearing to the other end of the room.

Hermione looked around, tentative. She could see Ginny and Cho sending them looks before Ron grabbed both their shoulders and turned them around to face the curtains. Even Dean, Seamus and Neville found themselves turning away and clearing their throats when Hermione caught their eye, who'd obviously been watching them as well. Luna, however, was picking something out of her teacup.

She was scared to look at Harry's face because she could feel inside that this was supposed to be epic. She was _terrified_ of what he was going to tell her. Suddenly, as she avoided his eyes, she really wanted the easy friendship they'd had back then. Before this whole Absolution potion, True Love business. And it wasn't even because he'd confronted her about Draco just this morning. It wasn't even remotely _about_ that – this whole awkwardness. It was just because she found Harry holding her hand again, in a roomful of people they knew, and it made her more uncomfortable than she could have ever imagined.

"Whatever happens," she heard him say. She glimpsed to his face to their hands, feeling her stomach give out a bothersome lurch. "We're… you're going to be fine." His voice dropped to a meaningful whisper. "I won't let anything happen to you."

She looked into his face then. He really meant it – she could tell, and she felt uneasy all over again. She swallowed hard.

"Thanks, Harry," she said, forcing a smile. She slipped her hand out from his. "But I've got to go."

And then she turned, making her way to the stairs, well aware of his eyes (and everyone else's) following her as she climbed, making her quicken her pace, until she was finally out of sight.

She passed through the corridors, only now noticing the absence of the paintings on the walls, hearing the sound of the quiet chatter slowly fade away. She paused for a moment, feeling the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand in anticipation, before she opened the door and stepped into the library.

To her surprise, she found a lone figure she knew rather well standing right in the middle of the library, watching her. She jumped when she heard the door close behind her, feeling her pulse start to quicken.

"Malfoy," she said, a little alarmed. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my library," he answered matter-of-factly. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Dumbledore asked me to meet him here," she said, giving him a look. "He wanted to talk."

"Oh, right," said Draco, with vacant emotion.

Then there was silence. Hermione watched him closely, anxiously twiddling her fingers at her side.

"Well?" she demanded, after one excruciating minute of quiet. "Aren't you going to leave?"

She was surprised at the hostility and animosity her voice gave out. It was strange. You'd think that after they'd both finally acknowledged they loved each other (he didn't say it directly – but she wasn't a fool), things would be easier. Things would be nicer. _They_ would be nicer. But it wasn't. Somehow, things were just as complicated and tangled up as before. She couldn't understand that, but she didn't think she really could take the time to, seeing as how they were probably on the eve of the great battle. But that was the thing: would things _ever_ get easier between them? She couldn't imagine it. They were either always fighting or hiding.

It would feel strange if they weren't doing one or the other.

He looked at her. His face was expressionless, and she found that it scared her a little. She wasn't used to this – him being indifferent. Not scowling at her, not sneering at her. His face was perfectly unaffected, and blank, and it threw her off.

"Of course," he said.

He started towards her, her eyes traveling to the rich patterns on the floor as he came closer, clenching her fists. But just as he was about to pass her, she spoke up.

"I saw you."

He stopped.

"Talking to Cho."

Her voice was dripping with jealousy. Draco found a smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, was that her name?"

"Don't be stupid," she said scornfully.

"Honestly, Granger. I would never take Potter's leftovers, no matter how desperate I was. Now, the question is: would he take mine?"

Hermione's entire body tensed. She felt a cold freeze inside the walls of her skull, her lungs tightening until they felt like two rocks sitting in the middle of her chest, furiously whipping her head in his direction. She was infuriated. Her brown eyes were glittering with anger.

"Why, you—"

And then he kissed her. His hands clutched the softness of her neck, digging into her frizzy, untamed curls. She was so surprised that she didn't think to struggle – in fact, in her moment of confusion, she even kissed him back.

Then suddenly, she found something sharp digging into the bottom of her jaw, and before she could react – before she could push him away – she saw a bright white light and a loud noise in her ears, and then there was nothing.

Granger's body fell limp into his arms, catching her, dragging her over to the couch and laying her there. Draco struggled a little, but managed to get her whole body there.

"God, Granger," he grunted. "I think you've been eating a little too luxuriously here."

Just then, Draco heard the door open and looked up to see Albus Dumbledore entering the room.

"Ah, I see you've got Miss Granger all settled in, Mister Malfoy. I expect Severus should be coming up here with the potions shortly. You've got the hairs? And what about your mother? I've got the Order waiting downstairs." He paused, looking down at Hermione in a deep sleep on the couch. "Now, she looks rather different asleep, doesn't she? Peaceful? Like a little lamb?"

"Yes. Her sharp teeth don't show," quipped Draco, looking down at her as well.

Dumbledore cracked a smile. "Yes," he agreed. "They don't show at all."

The door opened again, revealing Snape carrying a caseload of vials with his mother behind him. Draco caught his former Head of House's eye and the man immediately gave him a frosty look that lingered even on his bones. His mother looked from Draco to Dumbledore to Granger on the couch.

"Is she out?"

"Quite much."

"Someone ought to make sure. Draco, if you were the least bit distracted when you enacted the spell, its effects might not last as long as it should."

"Narcissa, time is not a luxury we have," Albus said. "Miss Granger will be fine. Now, the vials? The hairs? Are we all clear on the plan?"

Draco, feeling the fierce momentum of the moment throbbing inside his veins, took out the small cloth holding Granger's hair from earlier today. His mother did the same, holding out her son's, which shone in the light.

"Again, be cautious. We _must_ be cautious. There's no telling with Voldemort." Dumbledore seemed weary as he said this. "Lives will be lost. When it comes down to it, save only those that matter. Protect Potter." Dumbledore gave both Narcissa and Draco firm looks. "Severus, the potion."

Snape handed both Draco and his mother a vial. It was colored scarlet, although thicker than blood – not your ordinary Polyjuice Potion, in the least. It was tougher, durable, but it still only lasted an hour. Somehow Snape, no matter how good of a Potions Master he was, could not find his way around that. There were just some rules you could not break.

They popped open the vials. The scent instantly reached their noses – acrid, strong. They added their hairs in, making sure each one made it in, watching as the potion was activated, violently bubbling, eating up the hairs.

Snape was watching Draco closely, his eyes narrowed.

He heard his ex-professor's voice inside his head.

_The Dark Lord spares no one. Remember that._

Draco's eyes glanced up at him, but quickly looked away as both he and Narcissa prepared to drink the potion.

"Bottoms up," said Dumbledore.

"Godspeed," Draco muttered, before he downed the thick liquid. The moment it touched his tongue it seemed to burn – reaching all the way down to his toes. He felt as if every hair on his body had stood up, and then began to wither. His bones began to pop and make grotesque noises, his skin stretching out and then shrinking in. His hands shrunk, and they became softer, daintier, but slightly calloused from writing so much. There was a barrage of sickening crunches and cracks, his body shifting itself, inside-out. This went on for a full minute before it stopped – the churning in his stomach, the burning, and the contortions (he called the process of Polyjuicing a freak show) – and he opened his eyes. He found himself staring at… well, himself.

Which was really his mother.

She smirked at him.

"You're wearing a dress," he remarked, but his voice was coarse, and cracked rather nastily. He cleared his throat. He said it again, and this time it was perfect. Concise, clear. He even got the tone down.

Granger.

Hermione Granger.

"Don't worry, son," his mother said, in his cool drawl. "I'll wear a cloak."

"Well," said Dumbledore. "So who shall summon Potter? Draco or Hermione?"

"Erm, I will," said Draco. "I'll summon the little prick."

Severus sneered. "Draco," he said through his teeth. "_Play_ the _part_."

"That's right," Narcissa said smugly. "_Play_ the _part_."

"I'm sorry, I'm not used to having breasts and a vagina. Let me try that again." He cleared his throat. "_I'll_ go. _I'll_ summon the little beefcake." Draco was smiling evilly.

Snape rolled his eyes. "For God's sake."

"Mister Malfoy, there is no time. Throw on a cloak. Take no chances, do you understand? _Everything_," he emphasized, "can be lost."

"Right," said Draco. "Right. Uh huh." He picked up his cloak, which was a little big, so he traded for his mother's instead, then he headed out. But just as he was walking down the corridor to Potter's room, he stopped. He thought for a minute, staring at the two mounds of flesh he suddenly had placed on his chest.

Well.

He sighed.

This was an opportunity.

To see or not to see?

He couldn't help it. He snuck a peek down her shirt.

Damn. That was a good view. Best view ever, in fact. He wondered if everyone in heaven (if there was a heaven – he'd still never be able to get a look at the place, though) could look down people's shirts like that. Lucky bastards. If he'd known that there were breast-staring perverts living up in heaven then he certainly, by all means, would have been a lot nicer to people when he was younger. Maybe even have given a person a hug or two.

And then, after admiring the general splendor and view (and even a good cup with his hands – what? He'd never been a girl before), he quickly resumed his walking down the hall, never once noticing the man watching him from a dark distant corner.

"Well, well, well," quietly whispered Erick Bell. "What have we got here? Seems you haven't been telling all like you claim you have, Albus. Not at all." He chuckled to himself, before fetching out an iron, rusted key from his pocket.

"Good thing the Ministry's here to set a few things right."

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